Thunder Road by James Axler Page A

horses, the wag and set off, the horses showed no signs of wear, and proceeded at their usual dogged pace.
    All within could have wished for greater speed, but it was the same old trade-off they had lived with since coming back to this region—they had no real idea of the kind of distances involved in their chase, and they had only limited supplies of food and water. Food could be overcome to a degree. There was enough game emerging at night for Jak to make them a meal, although keeping the horses fed would be a problem with the lack of grass.
    But water: this was both friend and enemy. Friend because it was all that kept them alive. Enemy because they only had the supplies they carried. A trap to catch the cold air deposits of the night, the dew of morning, would not give them enough should they run low. The cacti would not yield enough, in a similar manner, although this carried with it the additional problem of not knowing if the mutated cacti carried water without taint.
    So it was important that they keep their expenditure of energy to a minimum, to make the most of their meager rations. The horses could not be driven too fast, because they might use more than could be allocated to them. Here, in the wastelands of dustbowl soil and desert sand that comprised the territory, the worst thing that could happen would be the demise of the horses. Without them, a draining trek carrying supplies that would be eaten up all the faster by the energy used to carry them was a certain way to buying the farm.
    So it had to be slow and steady, slow and sure. Slow, with nothing to do except dwell on what had happened to them.
    It could take days to catch up, even if the tire tracks remained visible. Perhaps they never would.
    Would they find the mystery rider? Would the trail just end? If it didn’t, then would they find Krysty alive at the end of it? Would she have been hurt, damaged, harmed in some way? Not just physically?
    Every dark imagining that could lurk in the recesses of the mind kept welling up to the forefront of Ryan’s imagination as he sat in the back of the wag. The bond that existed between himself and Krysty went deeper than the bond between himself and any of the others. Even though he would buy the farm to fight for them, and they for him as he knew, there was something deeper and more intimate between himself and the flame-haired woman. If such a concept as love could find a home in the stony soil of the postdark world, then it existed in what he felt for Krysty, just as he knew it existed between his oldest friend, J.B., and Mildred.
    His mind went back to the last time they had been in this part of the Deathlands. The time when he had been shot, presumed chilled, and the others had been captured. All except Krysty, who had evaded capture and had then single-mindedly pursued the coldheart responsible until her actions had resulted not just in his demise, but in the collapse of the plans that had powered the man’s existence. Her vengeance had been total.
    She had done that for him, even when she had assumed that he was no longer alive. It was no more than he would have expected of her, in truth, knowing her character.
    Just as she would expect that he would do the same for her. They had never talked of it. There had been no reason, and to even broach the subject implied the threat of it occurring, which is something that neither of them would wish to contemplate.
    Well, he was doing it now. Except that it didn’t feel like that. At this plodding pace, with her how many miles ahead of them now? If that coldheart bastard had harmed her, she would be avenged. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted to get to her before she was harmed. The question was, would he be able to?
    His brow furrowed as he remembered something. Reaching into a pocket in his combat pants, his fingers searched until they found a delicate chain. He extracted it and looked at the locket that dangled from between his fingers, so small and delicate