Junkyard Bargain Read online

  Spy concentrated on a house on a low mountain ahead, and sent me an urgent, vertigo-inducing vision of an armored log-cabin mansion with what looked like at least one cannon poking from its walls. There were four trucks, six motorbikes, and what might have been a Gov. car parked out front. It was a nice, secure hidey-hole.

  In an upper window a naked woman leaned into the glass, arms up and braced. Even with long-distance cat eyes I couldn’t see her expression, but I had a feeling of devastation. Behind her, another woman danced, clinging to a pole. She also wore an expression of dread.

  “I’ll be back,” I said to the women, although I knew they couldn’t hear me. “I’ll get you free.”

  “What?” Cupcake shouted.

  “Nothing,” I shouted back. “A battle for another day.”

  From a garage-type door at the side of the house rolled two mini armored tanks, men riding on the outside. The mini-tanks careened down the hill toward Spy. There were weapons mounted on the mini-tanks, big weapons. I tried to focus in—

  The vertigo worsened. The contact with Spy abruptly stopped.

  I needed more guns. I dropped from the window and wiggled into the sleeping compartment. “Hurry,” I said to Cupcake. “I think twenty minutes was a lot too generous.” I brought a second weapon up. Beside the Para Gen, I attached a blaster—an Army Radiation-generated Active Denial Rifle II—the initials pronounced as radar among weapons geeks. The RADR fired a beam of radiation. It heated the fluid beneath a person’s skin like a microwave, boiling the blood and cooking the internal organs. This model was lethal at anything under six meters. Between six and fifteen meters it created severe second-degree burns, blistering flesh. It was useless beyond that, giving the target a painful sunburn at most.

  It didn’t bode well for this trip that I was already breaking out the big guns and heavy ammo. In the past, they had been used only for show. All I’d had to do was display the weapons and we were allowed to pass. Something had changed.

  It also didn’t bode well that in order to fire reliably, I had to keep the passenger window down. I’d have no protection. I should have been wearing armor, no matter how hot it was today. Bad planning. Bad intel. Intel I used to get from Harlan. Dead Harlan.

  I sent out a vision of Spy and her clowder returning to the cab at full speed. Hoped she got the word, or she and her cats would be left behind and would have to get home on their own.

  Cupcake bumped, bumped, bumped, and the tree rolled forward, gaining momentum. I prepped the Para Gen and the RADR blaster to fire. Minutes passed as I added to my weapons stash, securing everything to the floor at my feet, rigs with holstered handguns strapped to my legs. As prepared as I could be, I braced myself for firing, sitting in the window.

  “As soon as the cats get back, raise your window,” I said to Cupcake. “We need the armor more than we need fresh air.”

  “It’s gonna be hotter than homemade sin in here,” she grumbled over the diesel.

  Into my earbud, Mateo said, “The Para Gen will get hot, and it goes through ammo like a mofo, but it won’t jam. To save ammo, I recommend you use autotarget and the AI.”

  I realized he was still in communication with the headsets and the cameras inside the cab. “Roger that. Setting for autotarget, three burst, manual fire. If I have to go fully auto,” I said, “it’ll be because I’m backed into a corner and have no choice.”

  Through the open windows, the cats dove and landed, claws out for purchase, digging into leather seats and our tender flesh.

  Cupcake yelped and swatted a juvenile male who scored a bleeding scratch on her shoulder. Even enhanced by nanobots, she missed by a mile. Spy was the last cat in, and she skidded into place on the dash, claws ripping the old plastic. Her sides were working like a bellows, and she gave what sounded like an urgent Mroooorow of command.

  Without pausing the bump, brake, bump, brake moving the fir tree, Cupcake raised her silk-plaz armored window and handed me her nine-millimeter. I removed the clip, inserting a full one and snapping it home with the heel of my hand. One handed, she slid it securely into the side pocket where she could draw it left-handed, if everything went to hell and back, I died, and she had to lower her protective window and defend herself.

  I checked the chrono. Twelve minutes, twenty-eight seconds gone. My butt on the windowsill, I hooked a leg around my seatbelt, braced my thighs, and checked the Para Gen again. Another yard, and Cupcake began to swing the wheel, shoving the tree at a sharper angle. The tree bumped over the last dead body. The truck followed, the diesel rumbling, vibrating, and bouncing.

  I pulled the ear protectors and goggles on. Loosened up my right arm. Stretched my fingers. Rolled my shoulders. Spy hissed a waring, her back arching, claws extruding and digging in. Hands flying, I checked the scanners.

  Two tracked mini-tanks careened around the bend a half mile down the road. They spread out, moving at speed to block the road.

  Cupcake cussed with great skill and originality over comms. She increased the speed of the bumping. The tree was rolling steadily.

  Men jumped off the tanks and took cover. The scanners told me there were ten enemy combatants, but probably missed some. Counting the yahoos in the woods, that meant at least twelve targets, all armed.

  The sensors were digesting info about the armaments we faced. Into my comms the scanners ID’d Spaatz, robo-capable mini-tanks. The tank on the right was mounted with a High Energy Weapons System—lasers. The scanner’s AI recommended the laser as the primary objective, a five-millimeter diameter target that was bouncing all over the place. Faster than human, I merged the Para Gen to the sensors. The AI secured the tiny objective at the tank’s upward bounce. Waiting.

  I engaged auto-fire. It calculated range, speed and bounce of weapon and target, weather, wind speed—factors that I couldn’t calculate. When the target bounced, the ParaGen fired a three-burst.

  Shrapnel flew.

  The attackers hadn’t activated defensive measures. The men close to the road disappeared into the trees.

  I slid the integrated AI back to manual fire, auto-targeted the tank on the left. Fired two rounds at what scanned as a rocket launcher on top. When that got me nothing, I fired a three-burst at the weapon’s mounting system and targeting system. Shrapnel went flying.

  “Bingo,” I whispered.

  The side-mounted weapons systems scanned as explosive-fired projectile launchers. Big-assed guns or small cannons. I fired. Hot brass landed on my arm and bounced off my face. The heat from the Para Gen scalded. I paused. Fired. Paused. Fired. Short bursts. All AI-assisted.

  I finished the rest of the twenty rounds on the continuous tracks the tanks raced on, hoping to damage them enough to seize. One tank stopped, the other one turned as if a track was damaged, which meant the track systems had been replaced with aftermarket stuff, not military quality. I knew my junk. They had good weapons but hadn’t spent the big bucks on vehicle support and transport. That was good news.

  I changed out for the other twenty-round belt and spent it on targets in the woods. The Para Gen never jammed. Now I knew why Mateo loved this gun. It was dependable. And with the autotarget AI, it was bloody accurate. But. I had only the hundred round belt left after less than ninety seconds. Still lots of people to kill.

  Bloody hell.

  The truck’s armor was taking small-arms fire. Cupcake slid low in the seat to make a smaller target, still bumping the tree. I was still hanging outside and might as well have a bullseye on my chest.

  I didn’t know if the tanks were totally disabled or if there were more weapons on them that the old scanner had missed.

  The tree bounced out of the way.

  The left tank fired. Rocked back and swiveled hard. I had taken out the targeting system and the missile flew over the truck cab.

  “Bloody goat-fucking damn!” Cupcake shouted.

  Mateo said into my earbud, “There will be a remote operator for each tank. They will have already offloaded into the trees.
Each will be holding two controllers for tank and weapons systems or one larger integrated controller.”

  “Behind the squarish rock on the left,” Cupcake said over comms. “Maybe a hundred feet ahead.”

  I pinpointed the form on the scanner and reset the Para Gen to full AI auto-target assist, manual fire. I fired three rounds. A man in faded black camo reeled off to the side. A bloody smear marked the rock. The tank on the left careened off the road and took two men with it.

  Cupcake accelerated.

  More men bolted out of the woods. Firing everything they had.

  The glass at Cupcake’s face was armored, but silk-plaz wouldn’t stand up to one of the massive rounds on the remaining tank or stop the laser if they got it going. I hit the Para Gen to full auto AI and let it take over. It took out four men and targeted the tanks again in the seconds it took me to detach the Radiation Active Denial Rifle at my feet. Then the ParaGen was beeping for more ammo. I had seven rounds in a belt on the floor. The tanks were coming up fast. I scrunched down below the window and let my reflexes take over. Aimed the blaster. Squeezed the lever. It took a sustained three-second burst at six meters or less to totally disable an enemy. Three seconds was forever. The only good thing was that the victims had no idea they were dead until they fell over.

  One down.

  The cab was taking heavy fire. Rounds ricocheted inside.

  I fired again, ticking off three seconds with each blast. The truck lurched and I got one man with only two seconds’ worth, but I left him screaming, so it was long enough.

  Cupcake accelerated again, shifting through the gears as smooth as bacon grease.

  I aimed. Fired. Another down. Cupcake rammed the side of the right-hand tank. I bounced all over the dash and back into my seat. The cats were on the floor, claws hooked into the rubber. I targeted the energy cell of one tank, then the other. I had no idea what a blaster would do to an energy cell, but I figured the radiation wouldn’t help.

  And then we were past the tanks. Past the enemy. I didn’t know if there would be more down the road, so I kept the window down and fed my original belt into the Para Gen. Seven rounds. That was all I had left. I was breathing hard, and sweat was pouring off me, burning into my wounds.

  The truck bounced and jarred across the broken pavement. Tree branches overgrowing the street made a rat-a-tat-tat along the cab and truck, throwing shards of tree and leaves inside. I ducked in and out to avoid them.

  Time and miles passed. No one came after us.

  What seemed like forever later, I said over comms, “I think we’re good.”

  “Roger that,” Mateo said.

  At my words, most of the cats left the floor for the sleeping compartment. Spy bounced to the dash, settled in a supple coil, and began to groom her feet.

  I pulled off the ear protectors and the goggles. Looked at Cupcake.

  She was driving with all she had, her hands white, death grips on the wheel and the shifter, feet working the pedals, shoulders held high, her head still ducked low. Her blonde hair had fallen in little spiral curls around her sweaty face. She was breathing with her mouth open, her eyes wide and unblinking. I sat back in my seat and raised my window. We rode for several more minutes as the heat built. No one else appeared. No one else tried to stop us. The river to the side was trickling, summer dry. I opened a water bottle and drained it.

  I opened another and held it out to Cupcake.

  She took the bottle in one hand. It was shaking. Tears burst out and raced down her face. She took her foot off the accelerator and downshifted, coasting while she drank, her eyes on the road. When the bottle was empty, she passed it back to me.

  “Most people saw some action in the war,” she stated, sounding weirdly calm and composed despite the tears. “You?”

  My insides clenched. I had night terrors about the war that left me gasping, screaming, and sweating, tears and snot all over me. “I was twelve when it started. I saw some action.” Understatement of the decade.

  “I never did. We got the training and the Berger chip upgrades, but we never had to use it. Me and my Old Man were living and working in Kansas City when it fell to the bots. Most of the Angels took off and resettled in St. Louis. Then that chapter was conscripted by the MSA.” She wiped her face, leaving behind a wet sheen of tears. “We survived. I learned how to fire a weapon because I had to, but I never shot anybody. Killed anybody. Until today.”

  I looked out the window. The town of Sylvester passed by in a blaze of red metal roofs, fortified houses, and abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Cupcake turned on the A/C and cool air blew in, drying our sweat.

  Neither of us said much until we hit I-64. Then Cupcake began talking again. A lot. About everything. Nonstop. Part of me wanted to punch her. The other part was glad to have her back from that panicked, near-silent fugue state.

  Until she started singing songs from the thirties. They were probably loud and raucous back then, but they had probably been on key. Any key. At all. Bloody hell. Cupcake sang when she was excited, grieving, and while she was working in the scrapyard. I had a bad feeling that Cupcake sang all the time.

  ∆∆∆

  The Kanawha River still flowed through Charleston, though greatly reduced from its glory. The Elk River was a greasy, dried-up trickle, thanks to an old upstream oil spill and the lack of rain. But there was enough water in the bigger river to create a green landscape—farms planted with corn, tobacco, and cotton, huge greenhouses producing tons of vegetables. There was a five-year-old water purification plant that allowed the local Gov. and its citizens to sell water from Charleston’s negotiated water rights.

  I didn’t come here often. Besides the dangerous journey, the water and the greenery were too painful, reminding me of the cool, wet, green Washington State of my childhood. All lost.

  Everything here was different. In the aftermath of a water-rights war, Charleston had developed a Wild West environment with water as the basis for its burgeoning wealth. In a world of violence, Charleston was less safe than most bigger cities to the east, but not as horrible as some places to the west. People, trade, and money—and the opportunity to make money—flowed through here. The Hand of the Law worked to keep peace so that money could flow.

  Unknown to anyone but Mateo and me (I hoped), there was a Simba buried near the city. Whoever rescued the World War III era battle tank would have the power to take over Charleston and the water rights, and rule like a king. Until the military came after them. If that battle-tank owner was me, I might even be able to force a truce with the military and stay in charge, defeat the MS Angels, and make everything better. If ruling was what I wanted. Which it wasn’t. Mostly I just wanted what Pops had wanted: to keep the weapons of war out of the hands of the PRC and local warmongers, which would keep the Earth out of the targeting sights of the Bugs. But Pops had built his plans without knowing what I would become when infected by bicolor ants and then swarmed by Mama-Bot nanobots. And he’d had no idea about queens and nest builders and what Clarisse Warhammer would become.

  This was the thing about riding shotgun. Too much time to think. Too long listening to Cupcake caterwaul. Too much leftover headache from firing weapons and talking to Spy.

  We arrived at the Courtyard Inn near the confluence of the Kanawha and Elk Rivers, where Cupcake parked the rig like a pro in the hotel’s secure parking area. She was chattering about the trip she and her dad took across country when she was a kid and he was a long-haul trucker, nattering on about the wonders of St. Louis, when she turned off the big diesel. “That arch was amazing. Nothing like it in today’s world. You shoulda seen it—”

  “Cupcake, I have a headache.”

  “What?” She went pale, swiveling to me in the big leather seat. “What can I do? Can I get you some medicine? Aspirin?”

  I pulled on my 2-Gen sunglasses and gave her a pair too. “Ice water. A fourth-floor room with a fully functional AC and its own bathroom with hot water would be nice. Why don’t you ch
eck us in and I’ll unload. And if they have an operating phone system, here’s the appointments we need to make and supplies we could use.” I slapped cash into her hand, and she bounded from the cab, happy to have a job to do. Blissful silence settled on me. Three cats pattered out of their sleeping quarters and jumped to the dash. Spy did cat yoga and yawned.

  “Mateo?” I asked through my comms. He didn’t answer. I was fairly certain that he had disconnected about the time Cupcake started singing. I gathered the weapons and stuffed them into their cases and boxes. Because that kept them from looking like guns. Right. Sure it did.

  I was “sick,” so Cupcake rushed back in a dither with the room key and slapped it into my hand.

  “Fourth floor, just like you said. And they have elevators! They work, too, from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Shall I make arrangements for lunch?” She flipped open a small spiral notebook and studied her notes.

  “Sure. Protein. Beef, rare but not bleeding. Potatoes if they have them. Anything green. And I’ll pay good money for a nice cold beer. I’ll secure our cargo and take up the suitcases, weapons, small valuables, and cash.”

  “Good by me. But you lay down, you hear?” She took off like a scalded dog.

  I shook my head, pulled on my gloves so I didn’t infect anyone, grabbed the gear, and headed to the elevators, the seven cats racing along the walls. No one saw us, and the cats were blissfully silent, diving inside as the elevator opened. That alone was odd enough to make me wonder if they were using their cat ESP to stay hidden.

  Room 402 had two beds, a big bathroom, a pull-out sofa, and two chairs. I turned on the AC. It rattled and shook, smelling sour until it started cooling the room. Bliss. After using the flush toilet, I washed the gunshot residue off my skin in a short but warm shower—the time determined by the faucet’s water regulator—inspected my wounds, smeared hotel moisturizer over me, and tried Mateo again. I cussed him thoroughly when he didn’t answer.