The gunfire ceased. The echo died slow. Sudden silence.
‘What’s he doing?’ shouted Huang.
Lucy looked over the buckled hood of a Lincoln. She saw the distant figure of Toon run from the guard tower. He was carrying the SAW. He ran to the convoy.
Lucy pressed transmit.
‘Toon? What the fuck is going on?’
Breathless:
‘Something out here. Swear to God.’
‘Think he’s lost it?’ asked Huang.
Lucy sighed.
‘Go look after him.’
Toon climbed aboard the incinerated bus. Rows of seats scorched down to springs. He walked down the centre aisle. Weak daylight shafted through empty windows and bullet holes that peppered the side panels and roof.
He wanted to find something. A snake. A dead vulture. Some kind of desert rodent. Proof he hadn’t lost his mind.
A body at the back of the bus. A long-dead Iraqi soldier, charred and shrivelled, spine arched in a paroxysm of pain.
Amanda climbed aboard the bus.
‘You okay?’
Toon shook his head.
‘I saw something. For real.’
‘Maybe the breeze.’
‘There isn’t a breeze.’
‘Maybe a change in atmospheric pressure. Evening cool messing with your perspective. Sure as shit wasn’t your friend on the back seat. He’s been cooked down to charcoal.’
‘You guys must think I’m some kind of burn-out case.’
‘I think it’s been a long fucking day and we could all use some rest.’
Huang stood in the bus doorway.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Amanda. ‘We’re done here.’
‘Okay,’ said Lucy. ‘First thing we have to do is clear some space. Give me a hand.’
Lucy took off her prairie coat. She unstrapped body armour. She stripped down to her Union flag T-shirt.
Huang shrugged off his flak jacket. The Sisters of Mercy. Event Horizon tour.
The truck was boxed by sedans.
‘Let’s see if we can roll these fuckers.’
Lucy and Huang each took a wheel arch. Amanda and Toon each grabbed a fender. They set the car rocking.
‘One, two, three.’
They lifted and heaved in unison. Metal creaked and shrieked. The car rolled onto its roof. It shed doors, hood and hubcaps. It kicked up dust.
They rolled wreckage until the truck stood alone in open space.
Lucy uncapped her canteen and poured water over her head.
She examined the truck. It sat with wheels half buried in sand. It listed heavily to the right.
She looked up at the darkening sky. Evening stars. A full moon. Deep shadow pooled and coagulated throughout the convoy.
‘We’re running out of daylight. We need to get her stable before we can crack these doors. Let’s see if we can get her running. I want to drive her to the citadel. Park her on flagstones. Get some light on her and set to work.’
She checked the underside of the truck. Tandem axles. Mesh over the tailpipe. The complete drive chain — the engine, transmission and suspension gear — protected by galvanised steel plate tack-welded to the chassis.
She kicked the wheels.
‘See that? She’s got runflats. A big, solid rubber rim inside each tyre. Means you can drive on hubs, even if the tyres get blown out. Bust through a roadblock. Doesn’t matter if a bunch of crooks throw a stinger strip across the road; take a shotgun to your wheels. Wouldn’t even slow you down. You just keep on rolling. Fucking sweet. This baby is shopped like a tank.’
They tried the cab doors. Locked.
Huang unholstered his Glock and took aim at the handle.
‘Don’t bother,’ said Lucy. ‘You’d just catch the ricochet.’
One of the side windows was cracked.
‘Ballistic polycarbon. Class One, but it’s taken a shitload of hits.’
Lucy pounded the window with her rifle butt. The inch-thick slab of optical plastic split from the door seal and fell into the cabin.
Huang swung himself into the cab. He reached beneath the dash and popped the hood.
Lucy inspected the engine. She peeled off a glove and slapped dust from the motor. She checked filters. She checked injection lines. She checked starter cable.
‘Can you hot-wire this thing?’ shouted Huang.
‘Watch me,’ said Lucy.
She leant into the engine bay. She connected the coil at the back of the V12 engine to the positive terminal of the battery.
The dash lit up.
‘Hey. Looking good.’
She reached beneath the battery into the fender well and tripped the starter solenoid.
Huang tore the cowling from the steering column. He spliced ignition cable.
Engine revved. The windshield wipers thrashed backwards and forwards, splashing sand. A single intact headlamp flickered and glowed steady.
‘Sweet job.’
Lucy slammed the hood, and climbed in the cab. Huang let her take the wheel.
‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we do that.’
The truck was sunk in sand. Amanda and Huang chocked the wheels with trunk lids from nearby sedans.
‘Okay. Let’s get her rolling.’
Lucy revved the engine. She pumped the throttle, tried to rock the truck clear of deep ruts. The wheels span. Shredded tyre rubber whipped and tore.
Huang hung out the window and checked progress. He shouted encouragement.
‘That’s it. Keep going. Almost there.’
‘Feels like I’m digging deeper.’
‘Just keep going. An inch more, and you’ve got it.’
Huang jumped from the cab. He joined Amanda and Toon at the back of the truck. They pushed. They sweated. They strained. The armoured truck lurched free. They caught a faceful of grit.
A deep groan as the plated underside of the truck ground rock.
Lucy’s voice over the radio:
‘How’s it looking?’
‘You’re doing okay.’
The truck pulled out of the convoy. It nudged the wreck of a Nissan aside. It lurched towards the citadel gate towers at a walking pace. Half a mile of lunar terrain. The engine laboured and revved. Toon and Amanda kicked rocks out the vehicle’s path.
Huang turned back towards the convoy. His body armour and assault rifle were draped over the hood of an Impala.
A body sat in the driver’s seat. A charred skeleton, fingers welded to wheel plastic. No hair. Empty sockets. Lips burnt away, giving the corpse a mirthless smile.
Huang turned his back on the carbonised corpse. He reclipped his belt. He clipped the holster strap round his thigh.
Behind him, the driver of the sedan began to move. The eyeless, grinning head slowly turned. Crisped skin cracked and flaked. Charred, skeletal hands flexed and tore from the steering wheel. The creature began to haul itself from the vehicle.
Huang rebuckled his armour. The rustle and rip of Velcro straps masked the grit-crunch of skeletal feet dragging through sand.
He slung his rifle. He unscrewed the cap of his canteen and prepared to swig.
Skittering stones. He swung round.
A tumorous figure, the colour of rot and dust. Something that used to be a man. Knotted metallic tendrils woven through flesh.
‘Holy fucking Christ.’
The creature tensed, as if reacting to the sound of his voice. It lunged. Huang dropped his canteen, raised his rifle and fired full auto. The cadaverous figure was lifted from its feet, belly ripped open. The impact of high-velocity rounds threw it across a Cadillac hood. It fell in the dirt and lay still.
Huang crouched over the dead thing. Smoking gut wounds. A skeletal face, empty sockets, tight skin pulled back across the bones.