Читать книгу Salvation Road - James Axler - Страница 12

The pounding in his head made J.B. open his eyes. He knew that the light pouring in would hurt like the darkest night, but he figured that if he could see who the rad-blasted hell was pounding his skull he could at least fight back against them.

The outside world was a blur as he squinted and gradually opened his eyes, but at least he was soon reassured of the fact that he wasn’t under attack. There were two shapes in front of him that stood out from the light around—one was stocky and light, the other tall, thin and dark. Neither was in an attacking position, as both were several feet away from him.

The Armorer furrowed his brow in concentration as he tried to recall what had happened. Everything was clear up until the time that they had been fed and watered by the workers they had stumbled upon. After that, there was only drowsiness, the insanity of the nightmares that troubled him and the thumping at the forefront of his skull.

J.B. groaned, and not only from the pain. It suddenly occurred to him that all of them had fallen for the oldest trick going. While low and in need of water and salt, unable to really focus or concentrate, they had been disarmed by the apparent friendliness of the workers and hadn’t questioned the willingness of the party to share valuable water.

But why weren’t they chilled?

His speculations were halted by Crow’s low yet penetrating voice.

“Is that a groan because you’re hurting, or because you were duped?”

The Armorer groped instinctively in his breast pocket for his spectacles and registered surprise that they had been carefully placed—obviously with some thought—where he usually kept them when they weren’t being worn.

As he pushed them up the bridge of his nose, he noticed that Crow was smiling, almost to himself.

“Better now you can see? You’re the first to come around, so I guess you didn’t drink as much as the others. And I wouldn’t try that yet, either,” the foreman added as J.B. tried to raise himself to his feet, finding that he hadn’t recovered enough equilibrium to do more than make the covered shelter spin dizzyingly around his head. J.B. slunk to the floor again.

“I guess I should mention now that we stripped you of all your weapons when you were unconscious,” Crow continued, “just in case you get a little angry when you try and check for them. Left you all the medical supplies, though. I’d love to know where you got them, but I guess you’ll tell us if you want. You’re certainly a mysterious group, and if you thought I bought that story about the wag, then you didn’t reckon much to me—”

“Why not? I’d believe it,” J.B. interjected, tacitly acknowledging his lie.

Crow laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Sure, you would. So would some of these boys. But they—and you—weren’t bought up on the legends of this area before skydark.”

J.B. gestured his acknowledgment, then asked, “So why aren’t we chilled? That’d be the obvious thing.”

“If that was the idea, then I tell you, my friend, that you wouldn’t have got within a hundred yards of this site. I would’ve let the sec boys cut you down afore you had the chance to raise your blasters. And let’s face it, you were in no shape.”

“Okay,” J.B. said, rubbing his aching forehead and looking at the ground intently as he tried to focus his spinning vision. “So what do you want from us?”

Crow shrugged. “Don’t want anything from you, really. I meant what I said. I don’t want to have to chill you, and I guess if I’m honest I didn’t like having to trick you. But you’ve got to understand that I know jackshit about you, and I couldn’t let you walk around with all that hardware. And let’s face it, there was no way on this or any other world that you were ever going to give them up without a struggle. By the by, my friend, I take it from the amount of ammo, plas-ex, grens and blaster power that we took from you that you’re the dude who keeps this outfit in working order when it comes to the hardware?”

J.B. nodded. “You could say that.”

“Then you’re a talented man, my friend, and I’d sure as shit hate to be on the opposite side to you in a war. I take it that the one-eyed dude is your leader?”

“Kind of. We don’t call him that, and he doesn’t call him that, but it amounts to the same thing.”

“Then I guess you’re a formidable outfit, and I’d sure as hell hate you to take against us just because I was kind of cautious. I’d be grateful if you’d explain that to him when he comes around.”

“Why don’t you do that?”

“’Cause I’ve got work to do. That’s why we’re here. I’ll be back later, but in the meantime my friend Petey here will be just outside, and the kind of jack he’s on to do a good job, then he may be just a little trigger-happy if you do something rash. We’ve got a lot to do, and not a lot of time, so the bonuses are good and we can’t afford interference.”

“Just what is it that you are doing here?” the Armorer asked as Crow turned to leave.

The foreman didn’t pause, just said, “I ain’t going to waste breath. I’ll be back here when the day’s work is done, and when you’re all in a fit state to listen. Use the food and water,” he added, gesturing to the barrel and table in the corner of the shelter. “That ain’t drugged, take my word…there’s no need for it, now.”

J.B. watched him go, followed by Petey, who stopped just beyond the last sheet of material covering the shelter. The Armorer then turned his gaze to his still unconscious companions.

It was going to be a long day.

RYAN WAS THE FIRST of the others to come to, and the one-eyed warrior experienced much the same symptoms as the Armorer.

“Fireblast, what the rad-blasted hell hit me?” he complained, raising his head and opening his eye to be greeted by his old friend standing over him.

“A heavy-duty trank,” the Armorer replied without humor, “and a hell of a shock if you look for any weapons.” He went on to explain the situation as quickly and concisely as possible, before Ryan had the chance to check for his blasters or his trusty panga and the red mist of fury descended.

“Guess we’ll just have to trust what he says,” Ryan mused when J.B. had finished telling his tale. “I knew there was something about him that set me on edge, even though most of my instincts said to go with him.”

“Figure you were right in the long run,” the Armorer said. “I can see his point.”

“Yeah, and just mebbe I would have done the same thing,” Ryan added.

The two friends and longtime traveling companions decided that there was nothing to do but sit back and wait to see what happened when the day’s work was done and Crow returned to them. In the meantime, they had to wait for the rest of their party to awaken.

The amount of time it took for the others to come around depended on their individual physical condition and how much of the water they had drunk. They were all extremely fit, even Doc. Despite the ravages of his enforced time travels, which had made his late-thirties frame seem several decades older, Doc was still extremely fit. There was no way he would have survived if not. His mind was another matter, and how it would react to this shock, when he had already been delirious from the desert trek, was something that they had to ponder. Also, he had been the most dehydrated, and Mildred had made sure that he had drunk a larger amount of the water than any of the other companions.

Jak was next to awake, and he reacted to the drug and the enforced sleep in much the same way as he did to a mat-trans jump, by vomiting heavily. But he recovered his strength, and was aided by Mildred, who came around next and was able to feed him a solution from one of the packs taken from the medical bay at the redoubt which quelled his stomach spasms.

Krysty surfaced and showed her strength by gracefully uncoiling from her sleeping position and rising in a fluid movement, standing upright and still while her balance and equilibrium settled.

Dean took some time, as he had drunk copiously, and Doc wasn’t far behind. But while Dean was fine, Doc was another matter. Mildred crouched over the prone old man as he began to regain consciousness, muttering and twitching as though in the throes of a fit. His eyes stared blankly from his head, and he failed to respond to any stimulus.

“Is there anything that we can do?” Ryan asked Mildred.

She looked up and shook her head, the grim set of her face showing her concern. “Not that I can think of. Trouble is, I just don’t know what’s going on up here,” she said, tapping her head to indicate Doc’s mind. “Whatever else, it’s just more shit for him to deal with.”

Mildred and Krysty made Doc as comfortable as possible, and while the others paced the confines of the shelter, careful not to attract the attention of the sec man outside but feeling confined like caged animals, Doc responded to the cold compresses applied to his fevered brow and the sedative injection Mildred gave him. It was one of the few sealed needles that Mildred had salvaged from the medical bay, and as she was usually loath to use such items, she wasn’t surprised at the quizzical look Krysty gave her when she broke the seal on the packet.

“I know, I know. I’m not that keen, either,” she said in answer to the unspoken question, “but I don’t know what else to do. The trank has unbalanced him even more than the desert, and this is so mild that it should just keep him under long enough to get more rest. There’s not a lot else that could work,” she added, shrugging.

And sometimes desperate measures could be the most effective, for after a couple more hours of deeper rest, Doc suddenly opened his eyes and said in a clear, firm voice, “I feel as if I have been asleep for a thousand years, and have awakened to the strangest feeling that I have said that, or something akin to it, quite recently.” He raised himself on one elbow. “Now, would it be possible for someone to tell me what on earth is going on, and how we got to be here, for I have to confess that I have not the slightest idea of where, or indeed how.”

The relief Ryan felt at Doc’s recovery was shown by the smile that flickered at the corners of his mouth as he replied, “We can fill you in part of the way, Doc, but for some of it we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Until when?”

Ryan looked out of the shelter and at the darkening sky as twilight closed in on the old wag stop.

“Not long, Doc. Not long at all.”

THE WORKERS CONTINUED to labor until the light was almost gone and the temperature had dropped from the blistering heat of the day to the bone-numbing cold of night. Petey had come into the shelter, cradling his H&K, and lit a number of oil lamps that were suspended from the poles that also held up the protective sheeting.

“How long do you usually work?” Ryan asked the sec man.

Petey shrugged, keeping a wary eye on the group but showing no great hostility. “Depends on the light, but it’s more or less around this time. We get about fourteen hours of work a day.”

Dean whistled. “That’s pretty intensive.”

“Eh?” The sec man paused, staring at the boy.

“I mean it’s a lot of time and doesn’t give you much chance to rest,” Dean explained.

Petey shrugged again. “Sooner we get done, sooner we get paid, and the more jack we get. Baron Silas is generous if you play straight and work hard. Mean-eyed fucker if you don’t.”

“Baron Silas who?” J.B. asked disingenuously.

“You don’t catch me out that easily,” the sec man said with a wry grin. “Crow’ll let you know all you need when he comes in. And that won’t be too long, so you just be patient,” he added, leaving them alone.

The sec man’s assumption was correct. It was less than half an hour before Crow led the workforce into the shelter.

“Glad to see you’re all awake and well. I’d guess that the enforced rest may even have done some good after your long journey,” he directed at them before turning to his own men.

“Bronson, you, Rysh and Hal are on sec duty tonight.”

The three men took food and water from the supplies for the sec men who remained on guard duty, taking them their meal before settling to their own. While they did this, the remaining workers took their own meal, discussing with one another the day’s work and their individual performances. The companions, listening to them, all noted that the main topic of conversation was getting the work finished and collecting the large bonus for a quick finish; the men were graphic about the manner in which they would spend the bonus in a gaudy house, casting glances at Krysty and Mildred as they did so.

The two women were the last people to be worried and shocked by such talk, which was obviously the intention, and Ryan noted that Crow was watching their reaction. The foreman did nothing to halt such talk, although he was silent and impassive as he took his meal. The one-eyed warrior guessed that the foreman said nothing as he wanted to test both the resiliency of the women, and the ability of their male companions to keep their peace. A swift glance at his team showed Ryan that they wouldn’t be found wanting.

The tone of the conversation continued when Hal, Rysh and Bronson returned from their task and also began to eat. It continued until Crow had finished his repast, at which point he decided that enough was enough.

“I hope,” he said, his quiet and deep voice cutting through the talk and silencing the others despite its lack of volume, and directing his comments at the companions, “that you have also partaken of our food and water?”

Ryan assented. “We appreciate you sharing your supplies with us. And I can appreciate why you did what you did. I figure that mebbe I can trust you people not to chill us—otherwise you would have done it already. What I’m wondering now is what you want from us, and who you are and where you come from. Oh yeah, and why you’re working out here in the middle of nowhere on an old wag stop.”

Crow allowed a rare touch of emotion—a barely contained humor—to creep into his tone. “Sure there’s nothing else?”

“Not yet,” the one-eyed warrior countered.

“Okay, let’s take it from the top,” Crow began. “We all come from a ville called Salvation, which lies about three days from here along the remains of the old road. Salvation is run by Baron Silas Hunter, who’s the man who pays our jack.”

“Good jack, by the sound of it,” J.B. interjected.

“Certainly is, especially if we finish on schedule or ahead.”

“Finish what?”

“This way station. There are a number of old wag stops along this route that date back to beyond skydark, and our job—and the job of other teams like ours—is to get the way stations ready for when the well is open again. ’Cause Salvation is built around the remains of an old oil well, and the refinery that went along with it. Baron Silas’s folks have always been around these parts, and they’ve spent a long, long time trying to get the well and refinery going.”

“And he has?” Ryan asked. When Crow affirmed this, Ryan whistled. “Fresh oil, refined—that’s big jack. How did he manage to get the thing going?”

“Baron Silas has a deal going with the barons of all the villes in this region. They’ve bankrolled him in return for a share in the fuel he produces. That’s real power. And they need stops along the road to pick up and rest up on their way to and from the well. So here we are. Most of us working here are from Salvation. That’s not so on other stops. Guess you could say part of the payment is in manpower.”

All Ryan’s people exchanged looks. Like anyone in the Deathlands, they knew how important fuel for wags would be. There were few vehicles left, and those that had survived were always short of fuel. To have such a source would give whoever possessed it, or formed an alliance, immense power.

“So where do we come into it?” Ryan asked finally.

“You don’t as such,” Crow replied. “You just happened to walk in. You can either walk away and take your chances, or you can join us and work. If we get this finished all the quicker because of you, then I guess we can spare a little jack. Plus you get your weapons back and mebbe the chance to see Salvation.”

“Mebbe?”

Crow shrugged. “Where you go after we finish is up to you. What do you say?”

Ryan considered the options. The desert offered nothing but chilling. They couldn’t get their weapons back from the workers by force, as they were unarmed and outnumbered, and just mebbe there would be something of use to them in Salvation. Baron Silas Hunter sounded as though he could be interesting.

“Tell you what,” the one-eyed warrior said eventually, “you take us to Salvation when we finish this job and give us back our weapons, and we’ll gladly work our way. Hard work is no problem, but that desert is a bastard.”

Crow nodded. “I figured you’d see it that way.”