Deathlands 075: Shatter Zone by James Axler

Author:James Axler
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science Fiction
ISBN: 0373625855
Publisher: Gold Eagle
Published: 2006-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Eleven

Rolling out of the morning fog, the four big men riding the sleek black two-wheelers raised their predark rapidfires and opened fire at the line of wooden carts.

All along the caravan of pilgrims, people cried out in shock and fell over, ghastly wounds pumping red blood. The ragged line of wheeled carts came to an abrupt halt, and the men scrambled for weps while the swayback horses went absolutely still at the sound of blasters. The animals knew the noise always was a herald of death, and the only protection was to not move.

“Son of a bitch!” a sec man cursed, leaping out of a cart, a cloth napkin tied around his neck, his face and mustache smeared with greasy soup. Crouching, the sec man leveled a remade scattergun and cut loose with both barrels.

The thundering barrage of nails and broken glass missed the racing group of Rogan brothers, the makeshift ammo rattling the leaves of the nearby trees.

Braking to a halt, Edward grinned evilly and replied with the 40 mm gren launcher slung under the barrel of the M-16 assault rifle. The fat shell hit the sec man, but the range had been too close for the predark warhead to arm. Instead of exploding, the 40 mm round slammed into the chest of the man like a flying sledgehammer. Ribs shattering, internal organs crushed, blood and viscous fluid sprayed from the mouth of the startled man, and he flew backward to land sprawling in the dirt. The broken form shuddered once, then went still.

“Too close!” Alan snarled, spraying a group of women and children fleeing into the bushes.

“Frag that,” John commanded loudly, pointing a bony finger. “There he is!”

Snarling obscenities, a fat man with a patch on his right eye threw a hatchet at the coldhearts, and Robert barely managed to duck out of the way, the spinning wep clanging off the shiny chassis of his bike.

“Not good enough, feeb!” he retorted in dark amusement, and shot the man several times in the belly, opening the stomach like a can of spaghetti.

“We surrender!” a burly man shouted, throwing down a homie zipgun and raising both hands. “Take what you want! We surrender!”

“Fool,” John said with a sneer, killing the coward on the spot. “Not taking prisoners!”

As the incredible truth became apparent, the rest of the pilgrims broke ranks and took off in every direction, casting aside their belonging to hasten their speed.

Revving the silent engines of the military two-wheelers, the laughing Rogan brothers started circling the screaming people, shooting them down as if ammo grew on trees.

As the last of the pilgrims fell, the Rogans returned to the fat man with one eye. Retrieving the thrown hatchet, Alan braked his bike to a halt, then climbed off eagerly. Testing the edge of the wep on a thumb, the man knelt by the corpse and started to hack away, soon removing the head to add it to the collection of grisly trophies nearly filling the cargo pods of his bikes.

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