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"Take Albert and Elmore's 4x4," he called to Jak. "Hot-wire it."
"Sure." The teenager ran ahead, vanishing around a corner toward the abandoned garage.
The farmer wasn't there when they finally arrived, but his men were all on careful watch, covering Ryan
and the others as they raced back.
"No time for talk. Got bad trouble in a bar. Like we were warned. Some folks on the last train west. We
got a few minutes, then every honest citizen of Country Row's goin' to be lookin' for us with a rope in his
hand."
The foreman, a tall, laconic Iowan called Webster, looked at Ryan warily. "You weren't thinkin' of takin'
any of our wags, were you now?"
"Don't be a stupe. Two of the dead own that flash 4x4." The engine of which burst into roaring life as Jak
finished hot-wiring it. "We're off in that."
"Fuel?"
"How's fuel, Jak?"
"Full."
Ryan shook the foreman's leathery hand. "Thanks for everything. Our best to Sullivan. See you all around
one day. Watch your asses here."
The man grinned slowly. "Don't you worry none about us, Ryan Cawdor. Get goin' now."
There was a swift round of handshakes, then they piled into the chromed and polished wag, J.B. taking
the wheel.
"Good luck," someone called.
They drove out into the main street of Country Row, between tumbling gateposts, stopping for a moment
to check both ways. Other than the merry little lights and an odd staggering drunk, the place looked and
sounded normal. The nearest bar was thundering out raucous music as they turned to the right and headed
west.
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IT WAS THE MOST overornamented wag that Ryan had ever encountered, reminding him of the florid
pimp-mobiles that he'd seen when riding with Trader in the gaudy sections of some of the larger
pestholes.
The top of the windshield was festooned with all kinds of soft toys and junk fluorescent green dice
covered in fur; a pair of dogs with nodding heads and rolling idiot eyes; a flesh-colored Madonna that
seemed to glow in the moonlight; a naked black doll, with a pregnant belly, holding a spear. Mildred
tugged that off and threw it out the side window before they'd even reached the town marker for Country
Row.
The only useful aid was a large compass, floating on a gyro, set in the middle of the dash.
As they drove west, J.B. gradually ripped everything off, reducing the vehicle to something more
serviceable.
"Hit lucky with this wag," he said after they'd gone about fifteen bouncing miles. He pulled off onto the
weed-grown soft shoulder and let the powerful engine idle, getting out to stare behind them.
Ryan joined him. "Nothing?"
The Armorer wiped his glasses. "Reckon they'd think twice about setting up a lynch mob, once they
realize how well-tooled we are and that we got clean away. No profit in chasing us. Not like we robbed
their bank."
Ryan patted his old friend on the back. "If we'd had another half hour, we could have done that, as well."
Jak climbed out of the rear of the three rows of seats, where he'd been perched with Doc. "Need a leak,"
he said. "Smart wag."
While he was pissing in the dry brush off the side of the highway, there was a rumble of thunder far ahead
of them and a flash of pinkish silver lightning, threatening a chem storm somewhere down the line.
Seeing that they were going to have a short break, the others all got out of the wag and stretched their legs
in the warm moonlight.
"More lightning," Mildred said. "Looks like we might run into that in a couple of hours."
Ryan glanced at his wrist chron, seeing that the tiny liquid-crystal display showed it was a little after
eleven o'clock.
"What kind of tank she got?"
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Krysty had been checking under the hood while they waited, whistling in admiration. "Those good old
boys might have been shit at human relations, but they sure made a fine job of their wag. It's in as good
condition as anything I ever saw. Must have been a kind of hobby for them."
Ryan knew that most of the predark wags had small fuel tanks. An average family car might only carry a
dozen gallons. Now, with the roughly processed fuel costing lives, it wasn't any surprise to find that the
4x4 had a triple tank fitted to it that would hold around sixty gallons of crude gasoline, giving them a
rough distance of five or six hundred miles. It was enough to get them to Memphis, and then all the way
back to the redoubt.
Jak finished and they all climbed back into the vehicle, luxuriating in the soft-padded upholstery, feeling
the solid thunk as the doors slammed shut.
"Upon my soul, but this is the way to travel," Doc said, sighing. "I do believe that a fellow could become
used to this kind of stylish traveling."
"Shame that it cost men's lives," Krysty said.
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