There Will Always Be a Max (2 page)

They'd say yes. That's how this story went. What wasn't certain was who would survive. Who'd walk across the finish line, and with how much gas or blood or water remaining. This region wasn't known for its clean endings.

“Fine,” Sarah said. “We'll pay your price, Max. Now get us home.”

King nodded, then started barking orders. “You, kid, you're Bo?”

She raised her jaw. “Bo, daughter of Artemis, daughter of Lenae.” A lineage, and one to be proud of, judging by the child's tone.

King nodded. “You keep watch. But not just the way they came from. Every which way. Put a swivel on.” Pointing at Xiao, he said, “You help me hook up the tow winch.” Then to Sarah: “Make sure everything's loaded, and sort out whatever bullets and bangers you've got left. We motor in five.”

*   *   *

Bo rode shotgun, head swiveling to watch the horizon in all directions. Xiao rode the still-functional motorcycle left by the Skull Boys. Sarah sat in the back with the spare guns and ammo.

The car's engine moaned a complaint, dragging nearly a ton of extra weight between passengers and the cargo.

But it was still a Force. The Max always drove a Force. It was part and parcel with the guns, the jacket. Every legend had its raiment, its icons. But the raiment alone wasn't enough to channel the legend.

King had worked four missions on this world, one before Roman, one with, then another two after Roman had joined the team. Two times as a Max. And not a single time had he come back without at least one broken bone or two pints down.

Stories patched hard in this world, just like everything else. Nothing came for free.

“Eyes?” King asked.

“No Skull Boys. Sandstorm in the distance; it'll pass us by, most like. Jump to if not; we'll be blasted.”

King looked at the storm in the distance. It was going the wrong way, but winds could change. “Gallon of diesel says it passes us by.”

“No take, no take,” Bo said. She put up a good front, but she'd been biting her nails since they hit the road. They'd wrapped the dead and put them in the trunk, not willing to leave them for buzzards. Another three hundred pounds in his trunk. The closure was worth the ballast. Assuming they made it. If not, they'd all ride to the boneyards together.

“How're we for ammo?” King asked. He knew, but keeping them busy, their minds occupied, would do them good. He was the calm at the center of the storm. They revolved around him, carried in the wake of a Max.

“Same as last time. Ten shells, three magazines for Bo's popper, and fifteen shots for the hand cannon.”

King looked ahead. A few miles ahead was a rent in the earth, probably from an earthquake or the like. It looked like something from during the world's breaking, not before.

“Drought-damn-rad-faak!” Bo said, looking back.

“What you ken?” King asked.

“Skull Boys on our tail, motoring.”

King looked through the rear- and side-view mirrors but caught nothing.

“How many, Bo? And where's the road down the canyon?”

“To the right, beneath the triangle rock,” Sarah said.

King spied the rock and pulled the wheel. But crossing would cost him time, and the Skull Boys would be faster. If he could get onto the incline before they caught up, it'd limit their options. But then he'd be pushing the engine to its limit getting them back up.

Soon enough, he saw the Skull Boys. Three bikes, then a dune buggy with a scrap-metal hull, jagged edges and amateur welds, shaking as it slalomed over the broken road.

He could handle three.

One eye on the road, King flashed Xiao a closed fist, the signal for him to keep the Skull Boys from flanking the car. They'd had all of minutes to work out signals, and he hoped they'd stick in a crisis. These people lived on the edge every day, but adrenaline and fear made for a dangerous cocktail.

“Scissors means flank them. Rock means keep them from flanking me. Paper means stay tight. One finger means go ahead of me. Four means drop back.”

Xiao dropped back behind the Runner, ready to veer either way to keep the Skull Boys at bay.

But first, they'd go down the ramp.

“How sharp can I take the curve?”

“How good are you?”

“How sharp?” King asked, an edge in his voice.

“Forty at most, unless your tires are made of glue.”

The tires weren't glue, but they were as good as anyone got in that world, but not so good they'd stick out.

Which meant slowing down. King swung wide and started the curve before hitting the ramp, slowing as the car kicked up a cloud of dust.

The ramp was worn down, but only just. On horseback, it'd have been easy. Maybe even on bikes. But in a four-wheeler with a trailer, they rocked and bobbed and shook. His skull vibrated, hands straining as he kept the wheel steady, forearms straining.

The Skull Boys took the turn sharp, a leader with a massive mane, fur or wig, catching dust and flaring like a monstrous mandorla as he lobbed a Molotov cocktail.

It had something in it for extra kick, making a spider web of his back windshield. But the window held.

“That shield goes out, you duck down, stay out of view. Bo, eyes back; start taking potshots. You ken?”

“I ken. Ma taught me to shoot grace-like. I'll pop 'em.”

“You do that. Pop 'em for your ma.”

Bo shifted, turning backward, using the seat as her rifle stand. “No good. Too far. They zooming, weaving.”

“Wait for them to close in. They'll stop weaving.”

A beat. Then a nod. She wasn't quite ready to believe.

Switchback ahead. There'd be an opportunity to gain time, but not for him. No way to jump that corner without damaging the cargo. He threw the parking brake and pulled a bootleg turn. The cart scraped along the side of the cavern but righted itself, on too short a swivel to overcorrect the other way. King dropped the brake and hit the gas halfway down toward the valley.

The valley was bone-dry, all the water sucked up long before. The ground floor was rubble, half-cleared to make a road.

Which meant cover.

One of the bikes made the jump, took the landing hard on its shocks, wobbling, but they came after, no more than ten feet back. They'd jumped past Xiao entirely. The scout popped off shots from his pistol, but he was a rider, not a shooter, and the bullets went wide around the more experienced driver.

Another Molotov shattered the windshield, a flash of heat and dust piercing the air as the car's weak seal broke. Dust and air and howling wind and the roar of tires on dirt filled King's ears.

It was on. He pulled down the goggles, motoring ahead into the half-cleared path. Scrapes and bangs rattled up as the car rumbled over the rough terrain.

The window broken, King pulled the shotgun from the sheath by his left foot. He leaned out the window, gun first, taking a quick left-handed shot at one of the bikers, trusting himself to keep the Force on the road with one hand. The Skull Boy turned sharp, ramping up onto the broken earth, but the shot missed. King corrected and fired again, aiming down at the front wheel.

The buckshot hit the motorcycle like a bowling ball, mangling the machinery. The Skull Boy bailed out, taking the fall well.

“Reload!” King passed the shotgun back to Susan and returned his focus to the road.

A few seconds later, the dismounted Skull Boy's companion drove up and picked him up. Once settled, the passenger loaded a crossbow and the bolt punched through the door frame behind King's head. Not quite behind. The back of his heat felt hot. He moved slightly to test. Just a graze.

Where was Xiao?

The scout and his bike appeared as King swerved right to stay on the path. Behind and to the right, Xiao leaned into the bike to stay out of the clutches of the dune buggy. The passenger in the car had a wicked scythe, leaning out of the car and swiping at the bike.

“Take out that cutter!” King commanded. Bo shifted, taking aim. She fired once, twice, three times as the buggy and bike danced along the narrow road, Xiao driving with great skill taxed to the desperate end. The buggy was better equipped for the broken valley floor, powerful shocks compensating for the bike's greater speed.

“Ready!” Susan said, the stock popping into King's peripheral vision.

He grabbed the gun and leaned into a turn, stilling his mind as he lined up a shot. The world slowed, action-hero cinematic adrenaline giving him the time he needed to aim an otherwise-impossible shot.

Even in a region of action world, King didn't often get slow-mo. Roman could tap into it far better, but he wasn't there. King took his blessings where they came and fired, shattering the scythe mid-swing.

But even with the blade shattered, the pole was long enough, the swing true.

The pole slid through and cracked in the rear wheel of the bike, sending Xiao flying.

“Xiao!” Bo cried, firing faster now.

“Breathe. Aim. Kill,” King instructed. He looked away from the wreck and brought the car out of the turn. Ahead was a straightaway stretch, several hundred feet before the so-called road curved back around toward the ramp up to the far side of the valley.

The two-rider bike came up on him, the pair leaning into the turn. The bolt bounced off his hubcap mere inches from the tire.

King juked the car back and forth, stones scraping and cracking on the door as he dodged. But it wasn't enough.

A tire popped, and the car slumped, dragging. They'd hit the tire.

“Pop that crossbowman now, kid!” King called, straining to keep the car on-track. The Runner had run-flats, but they weren't perfect. Especially not with that much cargo.

Bo hit the driver, sending the bike wobbling as the crossbow-man tried to steady his companion.

King pushed the car forward, testing its limits with the run-flat tire. The choking sound and straining of belts told him this was as fast as it went.

Couldn't speed up, couldn't dodge and weave as fast as them. Which meant it was time for the explosives.

“Sarah. Grey bag,” he said, eyes on the road, watching the side-view mirrors. “Pull the pins and then you have a five count. Throw on two; make sure they're at least twenty feet away from us or the gear. You ken?”

“I ken,” she said, rummaging.

Sarah eyed the Skull Boys out the shattered rear windshield, throwing on two as instructed. The first grenade caught the two-man bikers as they struggled to keep up, consumed in a plume of flame and dust.

That left one biker and the buggy. If they could wreck the last bike, maybe they'd be able to get away once they hit the bridge.

King felt options narrowing with each grenade thrown, each bullet spent, every mile they drove.

It'd have to be enough.

Inhabit the role.

The ramp up the far side of the valley began with a full switchback. The weight and repetition of thousands of wheels had packed down the earth for a wide approach, which King took, riding the edge of what the Runner could handle with a run-flat and a thousand pounds of cargo.

“Hang on!” he called as they hit the ramp, and King pulled the parking brake and then hauled on the wheel with his entire body.

The tires squealed as the car swung around, centripetal force slamming King and his passengers to the right. Bo crashed into the passenger's-side window, and the entire back-seat, from ammo to engineer, lurched and scattered, shells rattling against the window like hail.

King released the brake and put the pedal to the metal, willing the car forward. “Come on, come on.”

The remaining bike took a jump off of a stack of rocks and arced up and up and directly onto the ramp ahead of their car.

“Shit.” King leaned out the driver's-side window, firing the shotgun, trying to catch the rider before he'd settled out the momentum from the jump.

But the biker dodged right, running up the side of the valley and ramping back onto the path.

King dropped the shotgun behind him, calling, “Reload!” He picked up the pistol and took aim.

The sights pointed directly at another Molotov, which exploded against the front windshield. Shards caught King in the shoulder and grazed his face.

The car lurched left as he flinched in pain, heading for the cliff.

King hit the safety, dropping the pistol into his lap to put both hands on the wheel again while his vision went red with blood.

Focus, old man. You're a Max. The story needs a Max; it will support you.

“Damnit. Bo, do you have a shot?” he asked, muscling the car to stay on the ramp as it scaled ever upward.

“Dune buggy's right behind us. Shoot forward or back?” Bo asked.

“Forward!”

Ahead, the biker dropped a satchel full of something. In this region, “satchel full of something” was never good news.

Concussive force rocked the car as something exploded below. A high-pitched whistling joined the cacophony. A line burst or shredded.

“What was that?” Sarah asked.

“Don't know. Can't deal with it now. How's that reload?”

Something appeared by his left ear. He reached up and took hold of the shotgun once more. He had two bad options. Steer with the wounded arm or fire with it. He chose bad option A.

Half-standing out the window, King leaned over, open air and hundreds of feet of nothingness beneath him.

The Skull Boy let loose with a crossbow bolt, which buried itself in the windshield right at his head level. That was going to be a problem.

But not just yet.

He blinked the blood out of his eye, exhaled, and fired.

The buckshot hit the Skull Boy in the shoulder, and the biker slumped, taking the motorcycle racing off the edge of the path and down to a rocky end.

King sat back into the seat, faced with an opaque spider-webbing of cracked glass before him. But he could see well enough to know road from not road.

For now.

“Reload!” he said, passing the shotgun back to Sarah.