Shaking Earth. James Axler
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something to the warrior. The warrior danced a couple of steps to the side, struck down with his weapon. The screaming mutie’s head fell away from its neck, bounced twice on the road and came to rest facedown in a rut. A fountain of blood shot out of the neck stump, once, twice, three times, soaking the thirsty earth in red. Then the blood-flow ceased. The headless, one-armed body pitched forward to leak slowly into the dust.
The human captive pointed straight at the garage where the travelers and their vehicle were hidden.
The feathered warrior turned to study the structure. Then he lashed out backhand. The human captive’s head jumped off his shoulders. Without ever looking back, the warrior stalked back to his ride, forked it, kicked it to snarling life.
The cavalcade rumbled into motion again, right for the companions. “I don’t know about you,” J.B. said, “but I got a bad feeling about this.”
“Get into the wag,” Ryan called down the open hatch. “Get ready to roll.”
“Where to?” Mildred called up.
“Away.”
The truck with the big Browning stayed where it was to provide a fire base, Ryan noted glumly. Its thumb-thick bullets would punch through the Hummer like handblaster slugs through wet paper. The foot soldiers came trotting down the street and took up positions across from the garage, covering the double doors with their longblasters. A BAR-man was winged out to either side on his belly with his weapon’s bipod down.
J.B. whistled. “Them suckers’re toting FN FALs and M-1 Garands. And they pack a punch.”
“Then there’s that wrist laser,” Ryan muttered.
The strapping young warrior in the feathered headdress had been holding back, waiting for his minions to get into position. Then he gunned his V-twin engine with a blat like a submachine gun burst, streaked forward down the street, threw the bike into a dust-raising sidewise skid that brought it to a perfect halt facing the garage doors. He gazed up with a haughty expression on his aquiline features and barked something.
“What’s he say?” Ryan asked.
“Beats me,” J.B. said. “Sure sounds like he means it, though.”
“I say, Ryan,” Doc’s voice wafted up from below, “but yonder fine young bravo has just called upon us to—”
“Throw out your weapons,” the warrior called, “and give up at once!”
“English?” Ryan asked. The Armorer shrugged.
Ryan let his Steyr sling-strap slide off his shoulder, laid the rifle carefully on the rooftop. Then he stood. Two dozen rifle barrels tracked him.
“We’re peaceful travelers,” he called. “Traders. We’re not looking for trouble. We just got caught here by the raiders.”
“If you wish no trouble,” the warrior said, “then surrender now before I lose patience.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Two Arrow of the Eagle Knights. I serve Don Hector, ruler of the valley of the Anáhuac.”
“Sec men,” J.B. muttered bitterly. “Fancy drag, fancy blasters. Just lousy sec men.”
“Why do you wish to make us prisoners?” Ryan called. “All we want to do is trade. Or barring that, be on our way.”
“You travel these lands without permission. How do we know you are who you say? Now, throw your weapons out quickly. Or we will come and take them!”
Ryan held up his hand. “I have to talk to my people. Just give me a moment, please.”
Before the warrior in the gaudy headdress could refuse, Ryan hunkered out of sight. “What do you say, J.B.?”
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