Desolation Crossing by James Axler Page A

himself once up to this point. More than that, when he did, the even tenor of his voice had changed, and he spoke more slowly. But still the words didn’t make sense for a moment.
    “Said that there are bandits on the horizon, and ain’t it about time someone said something about it? Hellfire, missy, if I can see them, then it’s sure as shit that someone else in the convoy will have. This is the problem, see, no one talks to each other anymore, do they?”
    Krysty snapped to attention as the words began to be more than a collection of syllables delivered in that sing song tone and took on meaning. She looked past the old man, out beyond the road and the dustbowl. They had been driving nonstop for nearly eighteen hours at a steady pace, and she was sure that she had to have dropped into some kind of sleep when it was dark, but for the most part she had been awake. It was now almost the middle of the day after they had joined the convoy, and the sun beating down on the arid land had thrown up that weird heat haze again, limiting the horizon.
    Which meant that the wags she could see in the distance weren’t as distant as she could have hoped. They were low-level, obscured by the clouds of dust that they were throwing up in their wake. There were at least six vehicles, maybe more but hard to tell at this stage as the formation and the clouds of dust made it hard to distinguish at distance. They didn’t seem to be gaining at a great pace, which suggested that they might be at a greater distance than she had first thought. Or they were slower than she had estimated in her first, shocked, glance.
    None of that mattered too much—they were hostile, and they were coming. That was all that counted.
    She snatched the comm mic from the unit that rested between herself and Ray.
    “Enemy approaching from the southwest, mebbe six wags. Anyone else seen them yet?”
    Despite the high level of technology, the unit’s age and the rad count in the atmosphere meant that it still crackled like the most primitive of radios. So when Mildred’s voice came back, it was distorted and barely understood.
    “I see them, Krysty. Figure we should assume that we can see six, but there may be more in train. It’s better to be safe. You and me only have hardware to fight close-up. What about the other wags?”
    Krysty thought about that. Why hadn’t the others said anything about the incoming? Then it hit her—the other wags may be better equipped, but they were lower. The cabs of the refrigerated wags were raised much higher, and rode above the clouds of dust and wag exhaust raised by the convoy. The lower level wags that came between the trader’s lead wag and the refrigerated wags would be enveloped in the clouds they raised. Then she thought about the bikes riding shotgun at the rear of the convoy. How the hell did LaGuerre expect Ryan and Jak to function with any degree of…She stopped that train of thought. If anyone could look after themselves and cope with the most adverse of conditions, it was would be Ryan and Jak. They could handle the situation.
    Meanwhile, it was up to Mildred and herself to make sure the odds were as level as possible.
    “I don’t think they can see them because they’re obscured by the convoy’s own dust. I hope the bastards are listening in.”
    “Sure as shit am,” broke in a peevish, whining voice. “Would’ve said something else if you damn women would shut your yaps once in a while.”
    “Cody, you shut your bastard mouth. You’re worse than the rest of us put together,” Ramona’s voice cut across. “Let the sister speak, you damn fool. You’re not in Armand’s wag now. We need their intel.”
    Krysty, despite the severity of the situation, found it hard to suppress a sigh. Arguing among themselves, never shutting the hell up…It was nothing short of a miracle that they’d gotten this far. No wonder they’d lost so many the last time they’d been in a firefight. Then she remembered that,