direction. In front of the barrier a sunshade made from a brown plastic tarp was stretched between a rusting tractor’s engine cowl and the cab of an ancient water truck. Under the canopy, on a dais made of stacked wooden pallets, a lone figure lounged on a molded plastic chair, his unlaced combat boots propped up on a 100-quart cooler.
It had to be none other than Burning Man himself.
A flamethrower sat on the dais beside the cooler, close to hand. The weapon looked homemade. Ryan guessed the double, side-by-side steel tanks had once held compressed air. The flamethrower’s frame was made of crudely welded scrap metal and its padded, ballistic nylon shoulder straps had been stripped off a backpack. Six feet of armored hose connected the twin tanks to a nozzle assembly consisting of a two-foot length of pipe mounted with clamps onto a metal stock that featured a pair of pistol grips. Silver gauntlets and a matching hood lay on top of the tanks.
Upwind of the stench of carbonized human remains, Ryan caught a whiff of the pressurized wag fuel coming off the dais. Needless to say, there was no open flame anywhere near it. The block lettering on the side of the red truck’s tank was badly faded, but legible. It read: Volunteer Fire Dept., Rupert, Idaho. He wondered if thewater truck was there to put out the flames of innocent bystanders.
Ryan stole a quick glance behind them and saw that the mounted whitefaces had lined their horses shoulder-to-shoulder across the north end of the span, barring any retreat in that direction. They were trapped between the horses and the barricade. When he looked back, along both sides of the bridge, the crowd was beginning to move. As the women and children deserted the right-hand lane, all the men took positions along the left. Their weapons were aimed low, but held at the ready.
A firing squad waiting for orders.
In a matter of seconds, dozens of longblasters were lined up between them and Burning Man. No way could they hope to reach him before they were shot to pieces. Ryan moved closer to Krysty, shielding her from the blaster muzzles with his own body. As he did so, he peered over the bridge rail, into the river downstream. The channel below the span was very deep, the water green and sluggishly flowing.
Not only couldn’t they make a rush for the baron, they couldn’t escape via the river. Even if they managed to move as a unit, connected at the neck, and simultaneously jumped the rail without being hit, they couldn’t hope to wriggle out of the packs and ropes before they drowned.
The man on the dais called out, “Bring ’em closer!”
As the companions were yanked forward by the horseman, the whitefaced baron rose from his seat. A pair of dark-tinted goggles were perched on top of his head. Under them, his long, graying hair was parted in the middle and braided into twin plaits, which weretied at the ends with strips of leather. His gray beard, braided into short pigtails and likewise tied, only grew on the left side of his face. The right side was completely hairless, no eyelashes, no eyebrows, and covered with a massive, disfiguring scar that ran from chin to forehead. The eyelid caught in the middle was mangled and drooping.
Layers of white paint, no matter how thickly applied, could not hide that half-melted face.
His NOMEX jumpsuit had once been silver; now most of it was blue black from grease stains and ground-in dirt. The suit was unzipped to the navel, and his bare chest bore patches of scar, like splatters of thick, pink candle wax.
The baron jumped down from the dais and strode across the bridge deck.
Ignoring Blocky Head and Big Mike, Burning Man stared at Ryan, and as he did, a broad grin twisted the left half of his face. The right side remained expressionless, immobilized by the rigid plate of scar.
There was something vaguely familiar about the baron, but Ryan couldn’t recall where he had seen him before. As the man in the fireproof suit stepped
It had to be none other than Burning Man himself.
A flamethrower sat on the dais beside the cooler, close to hand. The weapon looked homemade. Ryan guessed the double, side-by-side steel tanks had once held compressed air. The flamethrower’s frame was made of crudely welded scrap metal and its padded, ballistic nylon shoulder straps had been stripped off a backpack. Six feet of armored hose connected the twin tanks to a nozzle assembly consisting of a two-foot length of pipe mounted with clamps onto a metal stock that featured a pair of pistol grips. Silver gauntlets and a matching hood lay on top of the tanks.
Upwind of the stench of carbonized human remains, Ryan caught a whiff of the pressurized wag fuel coming off the dais. Needless to say, there was no open flame anywhere near it. The block lettering on the side of the red truck’s tank was badly faded, but legible. It read: Volunteer Fire Dept., Rupert, Idaho. He wondered if thewater truck was there to put out the flames of innocent bystanders.
Ryan stole a quick glance behind them and saw that the mounted whitefaces had lined their horses shoulder-to-shoulder across the north end of the span, barring any retreat in that direction. They were trapped between the horses and the barricade. When he looked back, along both sides of the bridge, the crowd was beginning to move. As the women and children deserted the right-hand lane, all the men took positions along the left. Their weapons were aimed low, but held at the ready.
A firing squad waiting for orders.
In a matter of seconds, dozens of longblasters were lined up between them and Burning Man. No way could they hope to reach him before they were shot to pieces. Ryan moved closer to Krysty, shielding her from the blaster muzzles with his own body. As he did so, he peered over the bridge rail, into the river downstream. The channel below the span was very deep, the water green and sluggishly flowing.
Not only couldn’t they make a rush for the baron, they couldn’t escape via the river. Even if they managed to move as a unit, connected at the neck, and simultaneously jumped the rail without being hit, they couldn’t hope to wriggle out of the packs and ropes before they drowned.
The man on the dais called out, “Bring ’em closer!”
As the companions were yanked forward by the horseman, the whitefaced baron rose from his seat. A pair of dark-tinted goggles were perched on top of his head. Under them, his long, graying hair was parted in the middle and braided into twin plaits, which weretied at the ends with strips of leather. His gray beard, braided into short pigtails and likewise tied, only grew on the left side of his face. The right side was completely hairless, no eyelashes, no eyebrows, and covered with a massive, disfiguring scar that ran from chin to forehead. The eyelid caught in the middle was mangled and drooping.
Layers of white paint, no matter how thickly applied, could not hide that half-melted face.
His NOMEX jumpsuit had once been silver; now most of it was blue black from grease stains and ground-in dirt. The suit was unzipped to the navel, and his bare chest bore patches of scar, like splatters of thick, pink candle wax.
The baron jumped down from the dais and strode across the bridge deck.
Ignoring Blocky Head and Big Mike, Burning Man stared at Ryan, and as he did, a broad grin twisted the left half of his face. The right side remained expressionless, immobilized by the rigid plate of scar.
There was something vaguely familiar about the baron, but Ryan couldn’t recall where he had seen him before. As the man in the fireproof suit stepped
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