“Well, it’s like this, Dr. Kaes,” he said seriously. “First off, I don’t much like your chances of making it to Cali, no matter how much help I give you. Between here and there is a whole world of shit, know what I mean? Survies, ex-military, post-Fall crazies, Rad Zones, Free-Fire Zones, deserts and mountains and who the hell knows what else?! I mean, don’t you think I, myself, wouldn’t have lit out for the coast if I could?”
“I suppose so,” said Justin evenly. “But I think you fail to understand the gravity of my mission. It’s not something from which I can back down. I cannot give up trying. I absolutely have to get Mr. Lampert to the coast. And I’ll do that with or without you. I was merely suggesting that perhaps you could help. If not? Well, then we’ll be on our way.”
Baron Zero laughed. “Don’t get bent outta shape, Doc,” he said, waving a hand. “And don’t worry. I’ll help. But I need a little time to think things over. Good people and valuable resources aren’t something I wanna just toss around. Besides, none of your group looks like they’re in any kind of shape to go hiking to California. You could use some rest and some food, right?”
“Of course,” Justin said, the sudden defiance swiftly replaced by relief. “But every day we wait means another day of Mr. Lampert’s getting a day older. And at his age…”
“Hmm, yeah,” said Zero. “There is that. Well, I’ll do my best to hurry. But…”
He never got to finish the thought, though, as suddenly a small speaker on the desk blared out a sort of claxon-like noise, followed immediately by a woman’s stress-filled voice:
“Alert! Alert! Code Red attack at the Farm. All fighters to defensive positions. Preliminary recon reports eight to ten attackers, most likely Hellriders. Alert! Alert!”
The voice began to repeat itself, but Zero turned the speaker volume down and then, massaging his temples angrily, rose from his chair.
“Damn it, damn it,” he said, scowling. “Will those jerks never learn?”
“Problems?” asked Justin, sensing unseen activity all through the House.
“Eh,” said Zero crossly. “Probably not, if it’s only eight or ten of ‘em. But you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. It could be worse than it looks.”
“But what’s going on? Someone’s attacking your farm?”
“Yeah, Hellriders,” said Zero. “The local biker gang. Dumb as bricks, really, but you gotta admire their persistence. But look, I gotta go. Unless you wanna come with? Are you any good in a fight? Good with a gun?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Justin honestly. “But I’d be glad to help if I could.”
“Well, better come along then,” said Zero, heading for the door. “Never know what might happen with one of these kinda things.”
Swallowing a hard lump in his throat, sorry he’d volunteered so impulsively, Justin nodded and followed Baron Zero through more twisty little hallways and doors and stairwells, all the way down to the garage area. Here, among the scurrying mechanics and armed men and women, they were stopped by the diminutive yet imposing figure of Teresa, who stepped into Zero’s path and, her perfect features set in a fierce scowl, asked:
“Need any help?”
Zero stopped, looked her up and down, glanced over at Justin (who simply shrugged) and then looked back to Teresa.
“Well, yeah!” he said. “All the help I can get. But you don’t have a gun…”
“Sure do!” said Teresa, pointing. “Right over in that cage-dealy. Got my boomstick. Gauge twelve.”
“Shotgun, huh?” said Zero. “Yeah, that’s good. But can you handle a real gun? An assault weapon?”
“Can I?!” Teresa grinned wickedly. “Jus’ let me at it!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
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Having never been in the thick of an actual gun battle, Justin later decided the one he witnessed at the Farm to be something that he’d never want to be anywhere near, ever again. It was extremely loud, for one thing, with shots from rifles and handguns, explosions, and people yelling all seeming to merge into one great, ear-splitting, bone-rattling blare. It was stinky, too; he hadn’t realized that guns produced so much smoke. But it wasn’t the noise or the smell that got to him, it was the mayhem. People screaming in pain, the chaotic, jumpy sort of way the world looked when you were face-down in the dirt with someone trying to take your head off with a spray of large caliber bullets, the brutal waves of adrenaline, the blood, arcing in gentle sprays like a garden sprinkler on a hot summer day, the heat and the dust and the smell of steel and gore and cordite, all mixed together like a scene from an action movie he couldn’t escape. All in all, not something he’d ever want to experience again.
They’d arrived at the Farm, carried by an old gas-burning flatbed truck, just in time to take positions before the attack. The Farm itself wasn’t much to look at, just a great big, scummy-looking pond and a few barns and outbuildings, but a defensive perimeter of sandbags and wire and old junked cars had been erected all the way around the place and it was to the far eastern side of this that Justin, Zero, Teresa, and five other people from the House were directed by Vivian, the intense woman they’d met earlier. Unarmed, Justin was assigned a safe place behind a thick piece of sheet metal and told to take care of anybody that got shot.
“But…” he stammered at the woman, “but I’m not an Army medic! I don’t even have any bandages, or blood plasma or tri-Morphs, or—”
“Here,” Vivian interrupted rudely, tossing him a shoulder bag marked with a red cross. “And don’t lose any of that shit!”
And then, trotting off and shouting orders, she was gone. For a moment Justin had considered just dropping the shoulder bag and sneaking off back to the House, but then had decided that would be pretty cowardly and instead opened the bag to see with what medical wonders he’d been blessed. Nano-bandages, pressure and otherwise, good, Morphidrine in ready-to-use syringes, a couple of bags of uni-plasma and the gear needed to administer them, also very good. Now, if he was just an EMT or an ER nurse, he’d be in business. Making a wry face, he’d closed the bag and hoped that he’d have no need of it.
For a long time, it seemed like, once everyone had been placed at the perimeter with their guns and extra bullets, nothing happened. The wind blew warm and dry, stirring up little clouds of dust, and the sun beat down intensely on the yellow-brown earth. Way up in the cloudless sky, a single big bird, probably a vulture, circled this way and that, never once finding need to flap its wings. Down in front of him, on the actual firing line, his compatriots checked their weapons, over and over again, and nervously jittered in place.
Then there came a hoarse scream, an animalistic bellow like a dozen enraged bears, and suddenly the ground out in front of the line seemed to erupt with heavily armed human beings. Obviously the enemy had been creeping up for some time, using the many arroyos and folds in the ground to hide their approach. Now, at about fifty yards, they all leapt up and attacked, some dropping to one knee to fire at the defenders, others using the cover to rush ahead. Suddenly the air was thick with gunfire and what sounded like bees or something, zipping past his ears. That’s odd, he thought; what could that be? And then he hit the dirt as the answer came: They weren’t bees, for God’s sake, they were bullets! For the next while, maybe a few minutes, he simply cowered behind the sheet metal, covered his ears, and hoped very much that the shield between him and the bullets was good and thick.