He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cutlery. Another cheer went up, eyes gleaming red in the torchlight.
He smiled with a hanging jaw. For a moment these men were almost as brothers. A forgotten want, a sudden urge for kinship that not even the Catamite brought forth in him. The bonfire glowed warm and violent. Perhaps Jenkins prophecy was more than mere dream…
Then—
A shattering of contexts.
Ears screaming, thoughts jumbled — his men scattering, diving to the floor — a blast wave through his body, chemical scent — he grabbed the table for support, gaping at the ringing hum, watching the band right themselves. He looked at them, and they him. A brief amnesia.
The dust settled. Then he screamed, “The trucks!”
The band started moving, chaotic like a swarm of bees. Some hefted weapons, readying them, others scrambled for medical supplies, and others simply ran towards the chaos. He stood, and strode through them, the Catamite following in his wake. He exited the hangar, rounded the corner to the supply sheds, and passed through the crowd that had gathered. He came to a halt. A nervous fire burned up from his groin, numbness travelled downwards.
The supply sheds were torn open, corrugated steel shredded open like pieces of fruit. The hulks of the vehicles remained. One had been twisted, an ugly interpretation with its roof open wide. The other had rolled, its tires hanging limply and its engine shiny with leaking fluids. The supplies were gone, scattered. A plank from one of the crates had flown towards the hangar, penetrating the side and canting lazily.
The remains of five stewards were in the blast radius. Various scraps — bovine, human — littered the area, but five torsos were unmistakeable, arrayed spastically around the blast centre. One and been split open along the seam of his chest; another appeared unharmed, but was unmoving.
His hearing was beginning to return. Above the ringing he heard a wail. A survivor was kneeling by the front to the still-righted vehicle. His hands were clasped to his ears, blood running down his elbows and dripping off his chin.
The Mennites had planted a bomb in their tribute.
An animalistic scream of fury came out of Slayer and he looked up at the sky, bellowing at the heavens. The endless ringing made his voice sound far away. He turned to face the band.
“Prepare yourselves.”
It was all he said. They unfroze and started scrambling.
The next five minutes were a swarm of activity. Slayer wandered about giving orders, while the band equipped themselves and mounted up. The Catamite opened a vial hanging from his neck and snorted some of the contents. A moment later his grin widened and a maniacal look replaced the haze. He let out a jackal’s call.
Once every man was armed, and they had mounted their vehicles, the Catamite drove the dune buggy around so that Slayer could face them. The band was expectant, their mounts rumbling, their souls forged of iron.
He raised his pistol in the air, pointing at the sky. “We go for vengeance!” The heavy crack sounded as he pulled the trigger, and the men let out a war cry. Gunning the engine, the Catamite circled around, leading them out of the compound. Everybody was going this time. They’d
They drove hard, full of juice and anger for their lost brothers. A lustful yearning worked its way through them, driving them to find an outlet for their rage. They tore down the pathway, brush scraping against the sides of the vehicles, tearing off leaves, and screaming out for vengeance.
Slayer ground his teeth.
As they left the woods and the Catamite turned right onto the highway, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. As the vehicle kept moving, he turned around, staring behind them. Something back there had drawn his attention.
There it was — barely visible above the noise, light, and vibrations of his band. A pair of red lights, floating, somewhere in the distance. He stared at them, trying to make out what they were, as more of the men turned onto the road behind him. He was just beginning to sort out the perspective when a splash of white sparks appeared between the two red lights. His eyes widened. Muzzle flash.
His mouth was just opening to shout out a command when the crack of automatic fire reached them.
“I got their attention. Start driving.”
Panic broke out. The Catamite had the sense to slow down gently, but the man behind him didn’t. The gutted station wagon ground to a halt, only to lurch forward with a plastic crunch as the long sedan behind it slammed into its rear. The rest of the column stopped nervously and the motorcycles jerked their way past them, halting in a cluster further down the road. Desperate and angry, Slayer knelt down, fumbled for the switch, and turned on the dune buggy’s flood lamps. He was blinded by them, staring into pure whiteness while throwing his arm, indicating for the band to pursue. It worked. He heard the roar of engines, then the Catamite turned the dune buggy around. They were now at the tail end of a column that stretched on down the road.
The enemy continued firing, sporadic bursts followed by their echoing crack. His band returned the favour. Crossbow bolts shot out, falling short, while those with pistols levered themselves out the windows, sitting on the frames. The motorcyclists drove cautiously, keeping a wide margin between them and the vehicles.
With the mass of headlights pointed west, he could make out the shiny, rusted sheen of the fleeing truck. Jenkins had guaranteed no interference from Hope until next spring at the earliest, but the old man had been wrong. His lips snarled at the thought of those
The enemy was cresting a rise now, while his column pursued through its valley, bellowing out their fire in return.
“Shit! You okay?”
“The sandbags caught it. Keep going.”
They crested the rise. There was another short valley here, less than half a kilometer across. He saw the taillights disappearing again as his band spread out along the road, gaining ground. The motorcycles worked their way cautiously, gradually overtaking the lead vehicle. The enemy came into view once more, climbing the next hill, and each of the bikes lit up with their own automatics. How these faithless had managed to plant tech-heavy explosives in the Mennite tribute was beyond him. The Fathers had always been too faithful to even consider anything like that before. Ahead of him men were leaning out of their vehicles, trying to get a point of aim. The smells of petroleum and gunpowder filled the damp night air.
The whole situation was strange. Strange that the Fathers would allow foreign tech into the mix. Strange that they’d speak to the Constabulary — if that’s who this was. He squeezed the roll bar with a white knuckled gripped. A wariness was growing within him…
No, those thoughts were disgusting. Any other time he’d be leading the pack, hot on the scent of the blood. Following the scent of exhaust is what drove these thoughts. It wouldn’t matter, either way. Whoever the taillights belonged to, they were coming up to a sharp curve, and from the looks of things they were taking it too fast.
He chanced a couple wild shots with his pistol, and saw one of the taillights go out.
His bullet or one from the band. It didn’t matter.
“What the hell was that?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“The turn’s coming up.”
“Glad to hear it, this mag’s almost done…”
The vehicle’s brake lights lit up at the last second. Like a chain reaction, the column followed suit, sending up dust clouds as they slowed, grabbing the edge of the embankment to speed their turn. The motorcycles passed on the inside, retreating back to the middle of the column.
