America's Sword by Ryder Stacy

Author:Ryder Stacy [Stacy, Ryder]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780821728727
Amazon: 0821728725
Goodreads: 1251595
Publisher: Zebra
Published: 1989-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

They rode for ten hours, and camped in a nice, dry spot. The first thing Ted Rockson saw when he awoke the next morning was a large, black, ugly bird, with wings that must have been at least eight feet across and a strange hooked beak. It was flying in circles perhaps ninety feet above him, its red eyes looking down with great curiosity.

Suddenly it swooped lower, the table-sized wings flapping out sharp snapping noises in the air. Rock’s heart sped to double time as he reached for his shotpistol. But the moment he had the gun in hand and his arm thrust out, the great bird saw the motion and was already swooping away, the huge black wings releasing a few feathers here and there as they stroked hard. The bird gave him a quick little turn of the head as it tore across the prairie, and then was just a dot in the sky.

Rock had almost fired before he realized what it was—a vulture. A big one, but vultures are only interested in the dead. These huge birds were carrion eaters. He had never seen one go after something living, not even a rabbit or small mammal. It was just one of nature’s scavengers, a living vacuum cleaner without which the environment would be filled with the rotting flesh of tens of thousands of animals.

He looked around with a sheepish expression on his face, but no one had seen the action. Next he’d be firing at chameleons and ants, at the rate he was going.

The rest of the men were just starting to rise up themselves, yawning and stretching out their arms. Rockson sat up and slipped the big .12-gauge shotpistol back into its home and jumped to his feet.

“Rise and shine,” an annoying voice shouted out as he banged a coffeepot against some other loud cooking utensil. The Scotsman walked around the encampment, slamming two music makers together as if he were trying to wake the dead. “Up, up, before you miss one of my amazingly tasty wasteland breakfasts,” McCaughlin bellowed. “With real eggs. You hear me—real eggs.” Men groaned and a number of not very savory phrases came hurtling back at him.

“Come on now, men,” the Scotsman said with mock hurt. “I’ve been up since dawn—found some eggs. Cooked up a whole shitload of snake-sausage too. You’ll all be happy if you come get some chow. Before it runs out.” He banged the pots a final brain-jarring time and headed back to his fire.

None of them was particularly enthusiastic about either getting up or eating snakes. But since the only culinary alternative was the energy packets in the ’brid bags, they made themselves move over to the fire. Even Rockson stumbled over, feeling unusually sleepy this morning. The food he forced down without much enthusiasm, even though he knew it was pleasing his stomach a lot better than Shecter’s synth-chow. It was the coffee, even if it was hydroponically grown, that got his juices going.

While the

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