Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors Part 17

"You're going to make us both fall."

She stopped shaking his arms but did not relax her grip.

The scuffle drew the boys back to the base of the ladder.

"Is she okay?" Trent yelled up.

"Alex, Trent, help her down and take her inside. Calm her down. Get her a drink. Don't let her have a gun."

"Is she that mad at you?" Alex asked.

"Just do it."

Alex took a step on the ladder and helped pull Erica to the ground. The boys tried to calm her as she swore at each of them.

Jerry turned to study the rig through the binoculars. He scanned the behemoth for weaknesses. He saw a man with white hair looking back.

TWENTY-ONE.

"It doesn't look too serious. The ointment should stave off infection," said the town doctor as she finished bandaging Logan's knife wound. "I'm not sure how to treat that, though," she added, pointing to Sarah's grasp of Logan's hand.

Sarah blushed, but did not let go of the warrior's hand.

The doctor smiled and left the two of them alone.

Logan smiled at Sarah. She smiled back and leaned in close; her lips parted.

The door to the clinic flew open and struck the wall behind it.

"Sarah! Princess! Are you all right?"

Sarah dropped Logan's hand and hugged her father. "I'm fine, Daddy. Logan protected me."

"What happened out there?"

Logan pulled his s.h.i.+rt over his bandaged torso. "We ran into a couple of the major's men."

"But we stopped them before they could get away. They're not going to be able to tell him anything."

"But the major will be suspicious when they don't report back." Logan stood with visible pain.

Sarah put her hand on his shoulder to steady him. The mayor noticed the tenderness. He could see what was happening between the two. He approved. "How much time do we have?"

"Not much. We'll have to work faster."

"I'll let the town know. Just tell us what you need and we'll make it happen."

The mayor turned to leave, but stopped. "And, Logan. Thank you. You're a good man." He smiled at his daughter and left.

Sarah smiled at Logan and put her hand back in his. "I think Daddy approves."

Logan smiled.

"How hurt are you? Exactly?" Sarah leaned in and kissed him. He kissed back.

TWENTY-TWO.

"What are you going to do?"

He shoved past her and hit the home theater switch. A bracket lowered his a.r.s.enal. He moved frantically.

"I may be able to stop them here." He grabbed the largest rifle from the rack and climbed back onto the roof. Red tape marked an ammo clip as tracer rounds; he slapped the clip into the Barrett .50 caliber rifle and propped it up on the bipod.

Peering through the scope, he saw the heightened activity at the rig. The white-haired man barked orders; his men responded.

Striking a fuel tank with a tracer round should cause a critical explosion. The distance was extreme and he questioned whether the .50 caliber round would even penetrate the armor they had placed around it. Plus, the Silver Lining was shaking.

He slapped the roof. "Be still in there!"

"She won't stop jumping," was the response.

"Or swearing," was the other.

"Erica! Please sit down. I'm trying to shoot the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

The rustling stopped and the coach steadied itself.

Scanning the rest of the truck, he searched for another target. The scope crossed the trailer mounted to the outside rear of the rig. Its plating wasn't as thick. The walls weren't even solid. They were grated, like a livestock hauler.

With a whine, like that of a camera flash charging, the thermal scope came alive and displayed the activity at the rig. Men were replaced with splotches of color. They were scattered everywhere. He pointed the scope towards the rear trailer.

Body heat signatures filled the crosshairs. The rear trailer was filled with a ma.s.s of people. The density of the heat signatures lit the entire field of the scope.

The murdered people of Vita Nova weren't dead. They were crammed into the livestock trailer.

He heard the crack of the fibergla.s.s next to him before the crack of the rifle. A second bullet struck even closer.

They had set up their own snipers.

He fired several rounds quickly to force their heads down. He found the tires next. Striking the fuel tank would kill the prisoners. If he couldn't stop them, he could slow them down.

With each pull of the trigger, a tire erupted. He fired five times and each trailer sank as the air drained from the wheels.

The bullets came at him faster as the entire squad opened up. He scurried backwards and to the side of the roof, trying to get out of their line of sight. He looked through the scope one more time just in time to see the gate on the rear left trailer drop. Several motorcycles burst from the trailer. The riders were armed and they were moving fast.

He dropped the rifle through the skylight and followed it into the coach. Barking orders at the pa.s.sengers, he forced his way to the c.o.c.kpit and pulled the coach into gear.

"What's going on?" Alex ran to the pa.s.senger seat. Chewy was trying to console Erica.

"They're on their way. We've got to hurry."

"The truck is coming?"

"Worse. They've got bikes."

"So? What about the Silver Lining?"

"Motorcycles are fast. Coaches aren't. Plus, it takes a long time to do a three point turn on a post-apocalyptic highway."

It took more than a minute to turn the Silver Lining and get it up to speed. It took slightly longer for the bikes to arrive.

"Everybody get down!"

The brothers and Erica dropped to the floor. Chewy huddled with them.

Bullets tore through the thin skin of the coach. Cans of food in the pantry exploded. Equipment and supplies fell from the walls.

Jerry swerved left and right as he tried to knock the riders from their bikes. The riders were agile and easily dodged the lumbering coach.

"Erica, take the wheel."

Huddled on the floor with her hands above her head, she hesitated.

He pounded his door. "Erica. It's bulletproof. You'll be fine."

She crawled to his side and they switched places. Her arms shook as she grasped the wheel. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in close.

"Just keep it on the road and don't let off the gas."

She nodded and gripped the wheel tighter.

Jerry dove to the floor of the cabin, lifted a panel in the floor and slid into the storage area.

Four bikes had surrounded the coach, each armed with a submachine gun. Pulling alongside the door of the coach, a rider on the left sighted Erica behind the wheel. A shot through the shattered window of the cabin door would end the chase immediately. He raised the barrel of the weapon and prepared to fire.

The lower panel on the motor coach flew open and struck the motorcycle. Letting the gun drop to his side, the rider grabbed the handlebar with his left hand and struggled to maintain his balance. The bike wobbled for a few hundred feet and steadied. He grabbed for the weapon again. Then he saw the man inside the storage compartment. The shotgun blast lifted the rider from his bike and dropped him on the concrete.

Jerry fired at the second bike.

The rider slowed and pulled up behind the coach.

Jerry slammed the outer door shut and climbed back into the cabin. He slid into another hole in the floor. Unlike the first hatch, this compartment was full of gear, and it was difficult to maneuver around the boxes. He reached the door and kicked open the panel on the far side of the coach.

The rider saw the panel begin to open and kicked back. The door swung shut and knocked the shotgun from Jerry's hand to the road below.

Rearing from the pain, he fell back into a box that simply said Chewy on it. Contents spilled everywhere, adding to the clutter in the compartment.

Hissing, the hydraulics on the compartment door raised the hatch open.

Kicking the panel had caused the rider to struggle for his balance. He regained it as the panel opened. He drew his weapon and waited for his shot.

Chewy's old leash was within reach. On the end was a p.r.o.nged training lead. It was huge. It had to be to fit around the large dog's neck. It was also heavy.

The rider had to bring his left hand across the bike to fire. Jerry whipped the weighted leash to force him off-balance while trying to catch the training lead on some part of the bike.

The rider leaned away from the coach to escape the grasp of the leash.

Again, Jerry tried to hook the leash on the handlebars or the rider.

Putting himself out of reach of the makes.h.i.+ft flail, the rider pulled the weapon across his chest.

Out of desperation, Jerry threw the collar ahead of the bike. The lead caught in the spokes, the training collar wedged into the fork. Sparks flew and spokes snapped as the wheel ate itself. The bike collapsed, the fork drove itself into the road.

The sudden deceleration threw the rider over the handlebars. He plowed face first into the highway. The bike followed over him a moment later.

Jerry closed the panel, crawled back into the cabin and scrambled to the cab. He struck a switch on the dash that didn't look as if it belonged there.

"Brake!"

"What?" Only the leather wrapping of the steering wheel softened Erica's grip.

"Brake!"

She stomped on the brake. The coach lurched forward on its frame. The boys in the back grasped for something to hold onto as they slid forward on the floor.

Jerry was thrown into the dash. Chewy, curled beneath the dash, whimpered as her ma.s.s s.h.i.+fted.

There was a thud from behind the coach. A rider shot past them on the right.

"Now, go!"

She mashed the gas. "What was that switch?"

"It turns off the brake lights."

The final rider slammed on his own brakes and turned to race back to the coach. He drew his gun.