Cannibal Moon. James Axler
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Put up some bastard flares!” the convoy master bellowed to his crews as he ran the inside of the perimeter.
The rest of the companions squirmed up to the 6x6’s steel skirt so they, too, could see downrange. Still holding on to Junior’s pants, Mildred peered under the rear bumper. A few seconds later, 100,000-candlepower illuminating stars burst over the battlefield and slowly floated down on their deployed parachutes.
In the ghastly white light, the companions stared out at a flat expanse. A plain of nothing. No big rocks. No trees. Not so much as a blade of needle grass decorated the pale dirt.
The wild blasterfire around them faltered, then ceased.
Even the hair-trigger crew could see there was nothing for them to shoot at.
The illuminating stars hit the ground, one by one, sputtered and began to wink out. At the edge of the flares’ dying light, a tiny yellow dot arced silently up into the black sky. To the right and left, two more dots shot skyward. They climbed higher and higher until the companions lost track of them as they passed, whistling, overhead.
Then gasoline bombs burst in the center of the circle.
J.B. came to the same conclusion Ryan had. “There’s no sound, no flash when the fuel grens are launched,” he told the others. “They’re using some kind of mechanical launcher. They’ve got them dug in below ground, out of the line of fire. There’s no way to hit and break the Molotovs with small arms before they’re catapulted. They aren’t even visible until the throwing arm swings up, and by then it’s too late.”
“What about RPGs?” Krysty said. “Couldn’t they use those?”
“The cannie targets are only visible at the instant of launch,” J.B. said. “And then they’re just pinpoints of light. Hell of a trick to lob an RPG into a hole in the ground 150 yards away in the dead of night.”
A cluster of Molotovs exploded directly above their heads, making the 6x6 shudder, spilling liquid fire down its metal flanks and onto the dirt around it. Intense heat and the stench of burning fuel engulfed the companions.
“The cannibal bombardment appears to be coming at us from all sides,” Doc said.
“There’s no telling how many launchers they’ve got out there,” Mildred said.
“Cannies knew this was a favorite overnight spot for convoys,” J.B. said. “Probably got their butts kicked here a bunch of times before they figured out a way to attack it. Catapults would be easy to hide in excavated positions. Cover them with mats and dirt during the day. Uncover them after dark with the ranges already zeroed in.”
J.B. didn’t have to point out that gasoline bombs were a highly effective homemade munition, and they had the double advantage of pinning down the targets and lighting up the kill zone for longblasters. A perfect tactical choice under the circumstances.
As if underscoring that conclusion, the 6x6 was again rocked by overlapping explosions and blasts of heat.
“They’ve locked in on us,” Krysty said.
“Biggest wag, biggest target,” J.B. said.
Even as he spoke, a different sort of smoke began to filter under the wag. Blacker. Thicker. Chokingly abrasive.
Jak put his palm against the undercarriage, then immediately jerked it away. “Hot!” he said in surprise.
J.B. touched it, too, and had the same reaction. “Wag’s on fire!” he exclaimed “Fuel from the Molotovs must have dripped down inside.”
The 6x6 absorbed yet another flurry of blistering direct hits.
Mildred envisioned the piles of rags on the cargo bed above their heads, the cargo bed loaded down with leaky fifty-five-gallon drums of highly flammable liquids and stacked ammo crates.
The smoky air under the wag suddenly became almost too hot to inhale.
“Run!” J.B. shouted to the others. “Run, quick! Before the bastard blows!”
As the companions scrambled out, he helped Mildred drag Junior from under the wag. Then they grabbed the cannie by the armpits and half carried him away from the raging heat at their backs.
Ahead, wide puddles of fuel burned out of control. Dead folks lay facedown in them, their clothes melted away, their flesh charring to ash. Smoke and flame spewed from wags all around the ring. Even as the crew resumed shooting, more Molotovs slammed on target.
Mildred sensed the wheels were about to come off.
And in the next second they did. Literally.
The 6x6 exploded with a horrendous boom as hundreds of gallons of gas and booze detonated almost simultaneously. The fuel ignited in a withering fireball, which expanded to fill the interior of the circle. Before the wall of flame swept over them, J.B., Mildred and their bound captive were flattened by the shock wave, and momentarily knocked unconscious.
The blast saved their lives.
Mildred came to on her stomach, her beaded hair still sizzling as the wags parked on either side of the 6x6 began to explode in a chain reaction, like a string of five-hundred-pound firecrackers.
In a flash, a third of the defensive perimeter was wiped away.
And then it began to rain.
First came the heaviest debris: truck wheels, engine blocks, armor plate, axles, wag frames, transmissions, car seats. All crashing down from the dark. Then came the lighter stuff. Pieces of broken metal, glass, plastic. And finally, mixed in with the dust and smoke, a mist of sulfuric acid from the wag load of ruptured car batteries.
“Keep your head down!” Mildred cried to Junior as she shielded her own eyes with her hand. J.B. was wearing a hat and spectacles, so he was well protected.
Others in the fat trader’s band weren’t so lucky. Blinded by the falling acid, shrieking in pain, they blundered stiff-armed into the flaming pools of gasoline and the spray of bursting bombs. Wild flurries of bullets crisscrossed the circle as Mildred, Junior and J.B. reached the far side. The blasterfire wasn’t incoming; it was homegrown. But the cook-offs from the wags’ burning ammo stores had exactly the same effect—they chopped down the helpless crewmembers where they stood.
Then the Molotov barrage abruptly stopped.
The flesheaters had either run through their stockpile of fuel bombs, or somewhere in the dark, cannies were popping out of holes in the ground, sprinting for the breach they had made in the perimeter.
There was no time for a look back.
Bullets kicked up the dirt at their feet and whined past their ears as Mildred and J.B. steered Junior along the inside of the ring to the convoy master’s Suburban, where the others had gathered to make a stand.
Doc stepped forward, his Le Mat raised in a one-handed dueling stance. As Mildred, Junior and J.B. ducked under his outstretched arm, Doc cut loose, sending forth a yard-long tongue of flame and a billowing cloud of smoke. Over her shoulder, not ten yards away, Mildred saw two cannies go down hard, their heads hamburgered by bits of steel shrap and shards of broken glass.
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