Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

Jed Nalby rolled down his window as the prison truck bounced along the highway. The crisp air was shot through with a fine spray of rain. The tan-coloured countryside had turned grey now that darkness had fallen. He switched on the wipers and reached for the headlamps. Twin beams speared the highway, illuminating the bike ahead, the scout rider wearing a large helmet and a crossbow strapped across his back.

The truck crash through another pothole and Jed almost dropped his fat sandwich of paste and leaves. There was a squeal of tyres and he checked his mirror. The escort car behind him swerved back into view. The highway was treacherous but the smaller roads were not even worth consideration. This was the established route. He had to suck it down and get on with it.

The convoy was past the town of Redwater and Jed ignored the turn-off to Walnut Grove. A message had been left at Redwater that there was no prisoners or produce to collect. Jed got a little frustrated with Walnut Grove. It was none of his business, he knew that, he was only the driver, but they seemed slack down there. They took their sweet time in preparing goods for transportation, holding up the vital exchanges that kept all the small communities in the Black Region thriving. As a working man, their attitude bugged him.

He was looking forward to Silver Road. There were never any delays with them. It was his favourite spot. It was a better looking town than Starkville, where he lived, a few miles from the labour camp. He was often tempted to up sticks and move there. But his family was from Starkville and he had no one in Silver Road and if he did move it would mean forfeiting the truck run and the string of women he flirted with and sometimes bedded. Starkville was his home. He guessed it always would be.

Redwater was long behind them. The highway running west out of there was the shortest route to Silver Road but it had been devastated by the wars of the past. The land was buckled and poisoned and there was no way through with the truck. It had been attempted once, realising how much precious fuel could be saved, long before Jed drove, but it had ended badly at the hands of savage marauders who haunted the once great interstate. So now they looped around it, taking the longer route, down to Sand Hill and across the reservoir with the houses on stilts.

The families who lived on the water bore no external allegiances. They traded with no one but had never shown hostility toward the convoy and that was all that mattered to Jed. He wondered if the city of Kiven even knew such communities existed deep in the Black Region. He doubted it. The north didn’t care about the south.

The highway was flanked with reeds and choppy grey water. The wind buffeted the truck. He passed a cluster of houses with rowboats tied to a dock. Candles glowed and flickered behind slatted shutters. The sky was growing increasingly dark and the rain was much heavier. Giant plops erupted along the potholed highway.

Jed rolled up the window. The wipers jerked back and forth.

Two children appeared in his headlamps, wearing tin hats and slickers, pedalling one-handed on rusted bikes and holding fishing rods.

Jed hit the horn for them and smiled pleasantly as he drove by.

Ahead, the scout bike was beginning to slow.

He frowned.

The red taillight glowed. The rider raised his hand.

Gradually, the bike came to a stop.

The rider climbed off, pulling the crossbow from his back.

Jed’s radio crackled into life. It was the escort car. “Why are we at a standstill?”

He unclipped the handset from the dashboard. It had a curly wire hanging from it.

“Not sure, Hab. Can’t see much.”

He peered through the rain-spattered windshield.

“I can see a couple of horses loose on the road.”

Jed kept looking. He could see the body of a man sprawled face down, a woman bent over him.

“Got a fella flat out, big lump of a woman kneeling over him. Maybe he got thrown from his horse.”

Jed waited for a reply.

“Hab?”

There was a burst of static.

“Hab?”

The scout rider had reached the woman. She got to her feet, a large cross hanging around her neck.

“Yeah, I hear you,” answered Hab. “Damn radio keeps shorting out. I’m going to come down and …”

Gunshots.

The scout rider staggered, riddled with bullet holes. The woman with the cross had two pistols and the man on the ground was up on one knee, holding a gun.

“Hab …”

Jed dropped the radio and reached for his shotgun. Bullets raked the windshield. He rocked in his seat, his face and chest erupting with blood.

Michelle and Declan flanked the truck, dropping into half-crouches.

There were three men in the escort car. One of them climbed out half out. That was as far as he got.

Bullets punched through the windows as Reardon and Sullivan fired from the reeds. Michelle and Declan came forward and began to unload rounds.

Men screamed. Bodies jerked. Glass shattered.

The two kids with fishing rods skidded to a halt, watching open-mouthed.

They spun around and began to frantically pedal. Sullivan popped two bullets into his rifle, took them down.

The young bodies smacked onto the rain-drenched highway.

“Good shooting, Danny,” said Reardon.

Declan was breathing hard, grinning from ear to ear. Michelle clapped him on the back, a proud expression on her face. Sullivan took a few steps forward, and balanced his rifle over his shoulder. His grey hair was plastered to his skull.

“Now that was like the good old days,” said Reardon.

He ejected the empty magazine from his pistol and slammed his hand against the truck.

“Let’s pay that bastard Stone a wee visit.”