It was not far past dawn, but the heat of the morning was already cutting into Bonner's shoulders. Absently, he ran a hand through his hair. It felt hot and brittle, dirty with sweat and the sun. Somewhere he would have to find himself some water and wash. He imagined dousing his body with cool water in a stream somewhere, cleansing himself of heat and fatigue, the way crazy old Preacher said he could do the same thing to sin.

The bomb had blown away everything. Even sin. Nothing was a sin anymore—unless you counted getting yourself taken down or robbed of something you had killed to own yourself. That was always Dara's problem, Bonner thought, she lived in a new bad world but she carried the baggage of the old bad world with her.

She wanted to kill Leather because she thought him evil. She had decided that he didn't deserve to live—as if being robbed of life in this time was some terrible forfeit—he had to be punished. As far as she was concerned he was like the rad that ruined the water and turned the soil and air into gray death, useless, evil . . .

Bonner wanted Leather dead because he was an enemy. For a couple of hundred miles, two days of hard travelling, Bonner had listened to his engine and held one thought in his mind: nothing personal, Leather, nothing personal . . .

He saw himself standing behind the chattering fifty calibre, cutting Leather's big body into pieces with a long, hot spray of shells: nothing personal . . .

He saw all three of his blades scything hilt deep into Leather's paunch: nothing personal . . .

He heard the contemptuous snort of the Winchester and saw the shells slamming into Leather's scarred face, stripping away the flesh, laying bare the bone:

nothing personal . . .

He could feel his hands closing around Leather's muscled throat, feel the collapse of the delicate traceries of bone and cartilage under his fingertips: nothing personal . . .

Bonner was staring out over the hood, his grip on the wheel growing stronger until, with a start, he brought himself back to the hot morning.

He was about forty miles from Detroit, or rather, what had once been Detroit, and was running out of gas. A ways up the highway he would get to the oasis. He wondered if anyone had found his cache. Why not? he wondered. It was there, all you had to do was look for it. If someone took what he needed and moved on, that was fine by him. If they got any ideas that the vast underground pool of fuel belonged to them, then they were buying trouble. Deep in the back of Bonner's brain there came a feeling that he had known before: he was sick of killing—he chased the thought from his mind. To stop killing was to die. What was wrong with that? a voice asked. Bonner couldn't answer that one.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, Bonner was driving through the broken streets of the town that held the fuel reserve. He had never paused long enough in the rains to find out the name of the place. To Bonner and Seth and a few of the others who knew the secrets of the town it was just called the oasis. It was one of the many strung out along the roads.

Bonner stopped in front of an expanse of gray paving that fronted the street. The few foundation stones of the old office and the place where the pumps had been could still be seen. A metal plug about a foot across was set into the concrete. Bonner levered it up and peered within. The heady smell of gasoline rushed up to his nostrils. A faint shimmer dappled the liquid below him and he could see that there was plenty left. Quickly, he began lowering the bucket that lay by the plug into the gloom. Within the hour he had filled his tank and was ready to head on.

Before starting the engine, though, he paused, his head cocked into the wind like an animal listening for danger. On the edge of a breeze, Bonner could hear an approaching engine. It was the high whine of a tough little motor plainly working its guts out. Bon-ner smiled. He knew the sound and was a good friend of the driver.

A few minutes later, Starling, mounted on that crazy looking tricycle of his, hove into view. The two big fat tires that capped the rear axle made the vehicle look like it could climb a cliff face. Starling bounced down the street looking like a fanner on a tractor. He grinned out from between the two huge tires.

"Well, damn me," he yelled over the howl of his engine, "Mr. Bonner himself."

"Hey, Starling," Bonner called back, "what brings you here?"

"You know me, always looking. Always looking for love." He shut down the engine and slid from the saddle. He grasped Bonner's hand. "Sure am glad to see you. I ain't had a friendly word with no one in many a day. Penn's crawling with Stormers. They shot at my ass for about a hundred miles."

"I saw Coldchip. He said the same thing."

Starling's face split in a wide grin. "Coldchip. No shit. How's he doing?"

"Not so good."

"Oh," said Starling, "did you . . . ?"

"Yes," said Bonner, " 'fraid so."

Starling set about busying himself with his car. He was a tall, wiry man, his face burnt dark brown by the sun. He was as strong as a bull and as fast as a whip. He carried a gun, of course, but his preferred weapon was a bow and arrow. He made his own steel shafts with tips that packed an ounce or so of explosive powder. Bonner hated the sound of one of those little terrors hitting a man's body. Their effect was devastating.

"Damn," said Starling. "I would have thought that Coldchip had more sense than that."

"I think it was a spur of the moment decision. He didn't think about what he was doing."

"Don't feel bad, Bonner. Ain't your fault."

Bonner shrugged.

Starling was filling the big tank of his cycle. The morning air was thick with gas fumes.

"One of these days all this shit is going to run out."

"It'll all be gone some day."

"Us too. Even you, Bonner."

"Even me."

"So which way you headed?"

"I'm inbound." •

"You know what I heard?"

"Yeah," said Bonner, "you heard that Leather has put a price on my head. Ten thousand gold slates, right?"

"That's right. How did you know?"

Bonner smiled grimly. "How did I know. Remember Hatchet?''

"Yeah," said Starling, "I remember Hatchet. What a second rate piece of shit he was."

"Well," said Bonner, "Leather sent Hatchet to tell me."

"Leather sent Hatchet? He sent Hatchet to bring you down? And Hatchet went? Jeez, what a fool."

"And I guess that Hatchet told every raider, smuggler and street-worker between the cap and here that Leather wanted me dead. Coldchip and his men tried to collect and I always thought he was a friend of mine too."

"Well, if it sets your mind at rest, Bonner, I ain't going to try to collect. I mean you got to be pretty stupid if you think that for hauling you in Leather is going to say: 'Good job. Here's your cash.' Besides which, I don't want to try and take you. I like you alive."

"I'm relieved to hear it."

"Let me guess," said Starling, "you are inbound to see your old friend Leather and see if you can't work out this stuff about having a price on your •head."

Bonner nodded.

"Let me come with you."

"I thought you just said you got your ass blasted for a hundred miles."

"Yeah, so what?"

"And you're outbound for Chi, so why do you want to go and get yourself shot at again?"

"I'm bored."

"That's all?"

"And I love to travel. I have a hunch that you are going all the way to the Cap and that when you get there you are going to need some help. Besides, I haven't seen Leather since I don't know when. It'll be a nice Outrider reunion."

Bonner hesitated a moment.

"Come on, Bonner, don't tell me that you can make it all the way in and all the way out and think you're going to do it yourself. I don't have to tell you that I'm a pretty tough bring-down myself."

"Beats me why you would do this if you didn't have to."

"Why do you have to, Bonner? So Leather's put a price on your head? Big fucking deal . . ."

"I heard he's got Dara."

Starling looked somber all of a sudden. "Oh shit, this is going to be a hot one, isn't it?"

Bonner nodded. "If you want out . . ."

"No, I'll go. You know me, I'll do anything to be liked."

They rode for a good twelve hours before stopping for the night. Before falling asleep Starling said: "I met a guy who said that a Starling was a kind of bird. What I wanted to know was what the fuck was a bird. He said they were little things that flew around and just, you know, hung out in trees. Can you imagine that? What a fucking world it used to be."

Bonner was asleep already.

Web Site Contents (Unless Mentioned Otherwise) ©2012 By Atlan Formularies, Post Office Box 95, Alpena, Arkansas 72611-0095
Phone: 870-437-2999 - Fax: Out of Order -  Email: Addresses

[ Back ] [ Home ] [ Up ] [ Next ]