Shaking Earth. James Axler
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about a ‘holy child.’ It’s like their war cry. Don’t know what damn good that does us, but there it is. Whoa, what’s that?”
The flat dirt-covered roof had shaken beneath them. The two men stared at each other. It came again, a quick triple shake that evoked unnerving creaks from the roof timbers beneath their feet.
From somewhere distant there came a groan, a rumble, a dull vibration.
“Earthquake,” Ryan said. “That last was a wall coming down, mebbe a whole house.”
“Now we know why such a neat little ville has big piles of rubble lying about the bastard alleys,” the Armorer said. “Damn tremors must come frequent enough to keep the locals rebuilding and repairing, not leave them much time to worry about cleaning up all the wreckage.”
“Former locals.” Ryan had stuck his head up again, looking around. He could see nothing. But he could sense movement around them. He could smell the odors of rank and not all human bodies on the heavy moist breeze, hear the scrabbling like a horde of locusts stripping a cornfield: not loud, but ominous. The muties, he knew, were preparing another onslaught.
Then he frowned. “Hold it,” he said softly. “J.B., you hear something?”
“Other than my pulse going like a scared horse down a flight of stairs?” Then he frowned, too, and tipped his head to the side.
“Dark night, but I think I hear—”
“Motors.” Ryan stood upright, looking off to the northeast. “Wags, mebbe a big bike.
“Coming this way.”
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