[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
two transports covered with machine gun ports and stubby cannons spitting
flame.
"War wags! Use the Molotovs!" Krury shouted, then flipped backward as a burst
from the hidden machine gun blew open his skull.
"Throw 'em now!" Tatters ordered, lighting a rag fuse and heaving the glass
bottle over the fallen trees.
Fireballs whoofed into existence from the Molotovs, and the gang heaved the
firebombs in every direction until it seemed as if the forest was on fire.
Grabbing a bag of ammo from a dead friend, Tatters lead a charge into the
billowing clouds of smoke, firing at anything in his way, trees, bushes, and
chilling a
startled slave. Crashing through the underbrush, the teen led the gang through
a thicket, the thorns ripping every inch of exposed skin, only the thick
leather sleeves on their raised arms protecting faces.
Something streaked through the trees to violently detonate in the leafy
greenery, a tree blowing apart and sending out a lethal spray of flaming
splinters. A biker dropped, the entire left side of his body riddled with
burning debris. The Devil alongside the dying man grabbed his fallen blaster
and took off running, leaving the mortally wounded man to gasp out his last
breath alone in the bushes. Another biker tried to fire over a shoulder and
ran face first into a tree, the crunch of bone was loud as a pistol shot. The
limp manner she slumped to the ground was more than enough to indicate that
the woman had just chilled herself.
Scrambling over a rock, Tatters paused to catch his breath as a familiar sound
caught his attention. That was waves lapping on a shore. They had to be near
the
Nasay River!
Endless crashing sounded behind the gang, as the war wags tried to force their
Page 28
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
lumbering way through the thick growth of trees. Machine guns hammered
steadily, tracer rounds stitching through the air over the racing bikers as
they took off on an angle following the sound of the water.
Then the bushes abruptly stopped at the edge of a crest and there was the
Nasay! A wide span of clear blue dotted with tiny islands. Knowing the heavy
war wags could never follow them into the muddy river, the coldhearts threw
themselves down the sloping bank, tripping over exposed rocks and roots, a few
losing their footing. Splashing into the shallows, the bikers hastily waded
for the deep water, the current tugging at their limbs constantly trying to
drag them down.
As they reached the midspan, harsh illumination crashed across the river from
a sandbar upstream and the Devils cursed to see two predark Hummers sitting
on the hard packed sand, brilliant halogen headlights fanning across the
water.
"Get those lights!" Tatters cried, shooting his blaster. Then the handcannon
jammed on a bad round and he bent to afford as small a target as possible
while he struggled to clear the breech. Bastard reloaded bullet had blown, and
the split brass had flowered in the ejector. Damn blaster was useless now.
Casting it aside, the teen abandoned the rest of his gang and dived into the
water, trying to swim away while submerged. The chaos above became only
flashes of light and muffled thumps. Hitting his head on a rock, the teen
almost passed out and fought to stay underwater, trying to get around the
obstruction, until his aching lungs forced him to surface. Gulping in a
breath, Tatters saw a group of Devils cut to ribbons as the M-60 machine guns
mounted on the Hummers cut loose, the heavy duty combat rounds chewing a path
of destruction across the river until reaching the men.
Red blood spurted from a dozen wounds, and one man flipped over backward, hit
by multiple slugs.
Now the shrubbery along the riverbank was smashed flat as a massive war wag
parked on the slope, bright headlights crisscrossing the water, its forward
machine guns swiveling about for fresh targets. Then a box on the roof opened
wide exposing a bank of rockets inside.
Rockets? Tatters couldn't believe his sight. It was like the old war stories
the wrinklies told about. Who the bloody hell was after the gang?
The last handful of the Devils scattered at the sight, each going in a
different direction. Machine gun rounds chewed the river in sweeping patterns
over and over again, as if supplied with unlimited ammo.
Diving under the water once more, Tatters tried to get across the swift
current in the middle of the river, digging his fingers into the mud to crawl
underwater
until the teen thought his burning lungs would burst from the need for air.
Then he felt weeds mixed with the mud and rocks and knew he had made it
across.
The sounds of battle were a distant murmur as the biker briefly raised his
head to suck in a breath and continued desperately crawling into the reeds of
the bank.
A broken slab of predark concrete jutted from the water, and the biker put
that between himself and the war wags. Go slow, stay low, and he might just
live another day. Squirming on his belly through the black mud, Tatters
startled a frog before collapsing upon a dry path of dirt.
"Made it," he wheezed softly, the sound broken by a strained laugh. "Nuke me,
fucking made it out alive!"
"Not quite, feeb," a woman's voice said, followed by the racking of a
scattergun.
Looking in that direction, the biker saw a tall woman in clean clothing,
holding the biggest shotgun he had ever seen. His blaster jammed, knife lost
Page 29
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
in the current, and too weak to try to ace the bitch, the biker knew he was
trapped.
"Don't shoot!" Tatters begged, weakly raising both hands. "I I'm an e-escaped
slave!"
"Bullshit," she growled, walking closer until the cold metal of the weapon
touched his flushed face.
"I k-know where the Devils store their slick," he said hastily, cringing from
the outlander. "Blasters, ammo, all ya can want. All ya can carry! It's yours,
just don't ace me and it's all yours!"
The tall woman curled a lip in disgust. "I don't make deals with dead men,"
she said, pulling the trigger. The barrage of double-aught buckshot blew off
the top of his head in a horrid spray of bones and brains and blood. Mouth
still working to plead for life, the corpse
dropped into the mud, fingers wiggling and feet kicking in a pantomime of
life. Racking the weapon, she aimed at his neck and fired again, finishing the
job.
Wading across the river, the woman joined the people on the bank as they
sorted through the corpses of the bikers, knives slashing every throat in
ruthless efficiency. Splashing behind her, a Hummer fought over a tangle of
broken tree branches and dead men, catching for a moment with its rear wheels
spinning as it fought to finally get loose from the mud and surge onto dry
land.
"Glad to see you're alive, Kate," a big man said as she joined him, his left
arm tucked into his belt to keep it motionless. There was a bloody stain at
the shoulder, but the red wasn't spreading. It was just a flesh wound, one of
many over a long life of fighting.
"I see you caught one, Roberto," she said, pulling fresh shells from a looped
bandolier of cartridges across her chest and shoving them into the scattergun.
"Bastards threw enough lead at us. Somebody had to get lucky," Roberto said
calmly, then added, "Or unlucky, depending on how you look at who got shot." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szamanka888.keep.pl
two transports covered with machine gun ports and stubby cannons spitting
flame.
"War wags! Use the Molotovs!" Krury shouted, then flipped backward as a burst
from the hidden machine gun blew open his skull.
"Throw 'em now!" Tatters ordered, lighting a rag fuse and heaving the glass
bottle over the fallen trees.
Fireballs whoofed into existence from the Molotovs, and the gang heaved the
firebombs in every direction until it seemed as if the forest was on fire.
Grabbing a bag of ammo from a dead friend, Tatters lead a charge into the
billowing clouds of smoke, firing at anything in his way, trees, bushes, and
chilling a
startled slave. Crashing through the underbrush, the teen led the gang through
a thicket, the thorns ripping every inch of exposed skin, only the thick
leather sleeves on their raised arms protecting faces.
Something streaked through the trees to violently detonate in the leafy
greenery, a tree blowing apart and sending out a lethal spray of flaming
splinters. A biker dropped, the entire left side of his body riddled with
burning debris. The Devil alongside the dying man grabbed his fallen blaster
and took off running, leaving the mortally wounded man to gasp out his last
breath alone in the bushes. Another biker tried to fire over a shoulder and
ran face first into a tree, the crunch of bone was loud as a pistol shot. The
limp manner she slumped to the ground was more than enough to indicate that
the woman had just chilled herself.
Scrambling over a rock, Tatters paused to catch his breath as a familiar sound
caught his attention. That was waves lapping on a shore. They had to be near
the
Nasay River!
Endless crashing sounded behind the gang, as the war wags tried to force their
Page 28
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
lumbering way through the thick growth of trees. Machine guns hammered
steadily, tracer rounds stitching through the air over the racing bikers as
they took off on an angle following the sound of the water.
Then the bushes abruptly stopped at the edge of a crest and there was the
Nasay! A wide span of clear blue dotted with tiny islands. Knowing the heavy
war wags could never follow them into the muddy river, the coldhearts threw
themselves down the sloping bank, tripping over exposed rocks and roots, a few
losing their footing. Splashing into the shallows, the bikers hastily waded
for the deep water, the current tugging at their limbs constantly trying to
drag them down.
As they reached the midspan, harsh illumination crashed across the river from
a sandbar upstream and the Devils cursed to see two predark Hummers sitting
on the hard packed sand, brilliant halogen headlights fanning across the
water.
"Get those lights!" Tatters cried, shooting his blaster. Then the handcannon
jammed on a bad round and he bent to afford as small a target as possible
while he struggled to clear the breech. Bastard reloaded bullet had blown, and
the split brass had flowered in the ejector. Damn blaster was useless now.
Casting it aside, the teen abandoned the rest of his gang and dived into the
water, trying to swim away while submerged. The chaos above became only
flashes of light and muffled thumps. Hitting his head on a rock, the teen
almost passed out and fought to stay underwater, trying to get around the
obstruction, until his aching lungs forced him to surface. Gulping in a
breath, Tatters saw a group of Devils cut to ribbons as the M-60 machine guns
mounted on the Hummers cut loose, the heavy duty combat rounds chewing a path
of destruction across the river until reaching the men.
Red blood spurted from a dozen wounds, and one man flipped over backward, hit
by multiple slugs.
Now the shrubbery along the riverbank was smashed flat as a massive war wag
parked on the slope, bright headlights crisscrossing the water, its forward
machine guns swiveling about for fresh targets. Then a box on the roof opened
wide exposing a bank of rockets inside.
Rockets? Tatters couldn't believe his sight. It was like the old war stories
the wrinklies told about. Who the bloody hell was after the gang?
The last handful of the Devils scattered at the sight, each going in a
different direction. Machine gun rounds chewed the river in sweeping patterns
over and over again, as if supplied with unlimited ammo.
Diving under the water once more, Tatters tried to get across the swift
current in the middle of the river, digging his fingers into the mud to crawl
underwater
until the teen thought his burning lungs would burst from the need for air.
Then he felt weeds mixed with the mud and rocks and knew he had made it
across.
The sounds of battle were a distant murmur as the biker briefly raised his
head to suck in a breath and continued desperately crawling into the reeds of
the bank.
A broken slab of predark concrete jutted from the water, and the biker put
that between himself and the war wags. Go slow, stay low, and he might just
live another day. Squirming on his belly through the black mud, Tatters
startled a frog before collapsing upon a dry path of dirt.
"Made it," he wheezed softly, the sound broken by a strained laugh. "Nuke me,
fucking made it out alive!"
"Not quite, feeb," a woman's voice said, followed by the racking of a
scattergun.
Looking in that direction, the biker saw a tall woman in clean clothing,
holding the biggest shotgun he had ever seen. His blaster jammed, knife lost
Page 29
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
in the current, and too weak to try to ace the bitch, the biker knew he was
trapped.
"Don't shoot!" Tatters begged, weakly raising both hands. "I I'm an e-escaped
slave!"
"Bullshit," she growled, walking closer until the cold metal of the weapon
touched his flushed face.
"I k-know where the Devils store their slick," he said hastily, cringing from
the outlander. "Blasters, ammo, all ya can want. All ya can carry! It's yours,
just don't ace me and it's all yours!"
The tall woman curled a lip in disgust. "I don't make deals with dead men,"
she said, pulling the trigger. The barrage of double-aught buckshot blew off
the top of his head in a horrid spray of bones and brains and blood. Mouth
still working to plead for life, the corpse
dropped into the mud, fingers wiggling and feet kicking in a pantomime of
life. Racking the weapon, she aimed at his neck and fired again, finishing the
job.
Wading across the river, the woman joined the people on the bank as they
sorted through the corpses of the bikers, knives slashing every throat in
ruthless efficiency. Splashing behind her, a Hummer fought over a tangle of
broken tree branches and dead men, catching for a moment with its rear wheels
spinning as it fought to finally get loose from the mud and surge onto dry
land.
"Glad to see you're alive, Kate," a big man said as she joined him, his left
arm tucked into his belt to keep it motionless. There was a bloody stain at
the shoulder, but the red wasn't spreading. It was just a flesh wound, one of
many over a long life of fighting.
"I see you caught one, Roberto," she said, pulling fresh shells from a looped
bandolier of cartridges across her chest and shoving them into the scattergun.
"Bastards threw enough lead at us. Somebody had to get lucky," Roberto said
calmly, then added, "Or unlucky, depending on how you look at who got shot." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]