Salvation Road

“Certainly is, especially if we finish on schedule or ahead.”

“Finish what?”

“This way station. There are a number of old wag stops along this route that date back to beyond skydark, and our job—and the job of other teams like ours—is to get the way stations ready for when the well is open again. ’Cause Salvation is built around the remains of an old oil well, and the refinery that went along with it. Baron Silas’s folks have always been around these parts, and they’ve spent a long, long time trying to get the well and refinery going.”

“And he has?” Ryan asked. When Crow affirmed this, Ryan whistled. “Fresh oil, refined—that’s big jack. How did he manage to get the thing going?”

“Baron Silas has a deal going with the barons of all the villes in this region. They’ve bankrolled him in return for a share in the fuel he produces. That’s real power. And they need stops along the road to pick up and rest up on their way to and from the well. So here we are. Most of us working here are from Salvation. That’s not so on other stops. Guess you could say part of the payment is in manpower.”

All Ryan’s people exchanged looks. Like anyone in the Deathlands, they knew how important fuel for wags would be. There were few vehicles left, and those that had survived were always short of fuel. To have such a source would give whoever possessed it, or formed an alliance, immense power.

“So where do we come into it?” Ryan asked finally.

“You don’t as such,” Crow replied. “You just happened to walk in. You can either walk away and take your chances, or you can join us and work. If we get this finished all the quicker because of you, then I guess we can spare a little jack. Plus you get your weapons back and mebbe the chance to see Salvation.”

“Mebbe?”

Crow shrugged. “Where you go after we finish is up to you. What do you say?”

Ryan considered the options. The desert offered nothing but chilling. They couldn’t get their weapons back from the workers by force, as they were unarmed and outnumbered, and just mebbe there would be something of use to them in Salvation. Baron Silas Hunter sounded as though he could be interesting.

“Tell you what,” the one-eyed warrior said eventually, “you take us to Salvation when we finish this job and give us back our weapons, and we’ll gladly work our way. Hard work is no problem, but that desert is a bastard.”

Crow nodded. “I figured you’d see it that way.”

Chapter Six

The work party rose with the sun, and at first light the next morning they began to stir under the covers that protected them from both the sun and the chilling night. Crow was one of the first to awake, as though snapped awake by the first glimmerings of the day.

The giant rose to his feet and looked at the sprawled figures around, huddled under blankets or coats. He noted that Krysty and Ryan were sleeping close together, and likewise J.B. and Mildred. He then glanced over his still slumbering workers and remembered the comments of the night before. Although it didn’t show on his impassive visage, he figured that he would have to watch closely for any trouble, as it was almost certain to arise.

The foreman began to stir his workforce awake, and after he was sure they were rising for the day’s work, he turned to the companions.

“I see you’re already awake,” he said generally, as they were all rising.

“My dear sir, although you are as silent as a spirit walking, the combined noise of any amount of people within such an enclosed space would make further slumber an impossibility.”

“Don’t mind Doc,” Dean added, “he never likes to use one word where a hundred could be.”

The Native American allowed himself the flicker of a smile. “Betrays a good brain,” he said. “I just hope he can work as well as he can talk.”

“Despite my apparent age, I shall not be found wanting,” Doc uttered.

The foreman nodded. “Okay, eat, take some water and join the others outside. You have twenty minutes,” he added.

Playing it the way it felt, the companions allowed the workmen to wash themselves down and freshen up before taking their morning meal. It meant hanging around and taking the stares directed at the women, but in their current position it was best to play possum.

“Hey, you think those gaudies gonna get their skin on show when they work?” Hal asked Emerson.

Emerson, whose dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and whose beard was flecked with gray, studied Mildred and Krysty through hooded eyes.

“Hell, I hope so,” he drawled. “Them bein’ two colors’ll make it look real nice.”

He directed his next comment to the men in Ryan’s party. “Hey, I bet you boys have some fun, there.”

Jak’s red eyes pierced through the heavily set workman. “More fun in chilling scum,” he said quietly.

The albino teenager was nearly a full foot smaller than the workman, was unarmed and was slight in build compared to the burly Emerson. But still, there was something cold and diamond hard about the youth that made the workman look away without saying anything further.

An uneasy silence hung over the room after the workforce had finished and walked out into the sunlight, leaving the companions alone.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Ryan said slowly. “Not easy at all.”

WITH THE ROOF NOW securely in place, and the newly finished two-story blockhouse in place, the remaining task was to build the extension onto the existing structure. The new wag stop would then have storage space for fuel, food and water, as well as accommodation for a regular attendant and a few travelers.

The foundation for the extension had been completed, and the task in front of the workforce and the companions was to construct the one-story building and insulate the interior walls of the storage space, in order that any fire in the interior could be contained, and an exterior fire wouldn’t be able to penetrate the walls and ignite the fuel stores.

Wags from Salvation had carried out the building materials needed—a salvaged amalgam of brick, cinder block, sheets of metal and some sand and cement that could be mixed with some of the precious water in order to meld the whole together. The insulating materials were salvaged from old buildings, and were carefully wrapped to prevent the asbestos in the mix from spreading dust into the air.

Crow directed the companions to their tasks. Ryan and J.B. were to help lay the cinder-block outer walls, while Dean, Jak and Doc were to assist in the building of the interior walls and the installation of the insulation. Mildred and Krysty were spared the heavier work, and were to mix the concrete. When J.B. asked how Baron Silas Hunter had amassed an amount of something that was simply no longer made, Crow informed him that one of the villes that were investing in the baron’s scheme had an old cement works within its boundaries, and the supplies for all the wag stops on the route had been plundered from those bags that hadn’t been split or had leaked over the past century, and had so gone hard.

“It was tight, but I reckon as how we’ve got enough,” the foreman said thoughtfully.

“You’re an expert?” J.B. asked.

“I make sure I know what’s going on if I’m to do my job properly,” Crow replied. “I went to the works to assess what there was, and checked up in some old predark building manuals that Baron Silas had acquired.

“He’s a thorough man,” Crow added simply, but heavy with a hidden threat.

The Native American’s putting Mildred and Krysty onto the concrete mixing wasn’t a gesture toward their sex, but rather a shrewd move, which Ryan appreciated, to forestall the need for them to shed too many clothes through exertion in the heat. If they stayed fully clothed and away from the main body of the workers, then there would be less chance of conflict between Ryan’s people and Crow’s workforce.

But it wasn’t to be that easy.

“SAY, BOY, have you learned what it’s like to be a man yet?” Rysh asked Dean as they laid the internal brick wall separating the fuel store from the food and water store.

Dean stopped with a brick poised over a line of mortar.

“Just what exactly do you mean?” he asked cautiously. “I’ve chilled my fair share and traveled a long way.”

Rysh shrugged. “Chilling’s just a way of life, boy. I mean, have you ever had any pussy?”

Dean blushed despite himself, and felt the eyes of both Rysh and Emerson on him. The heavyset, dark workman pushed the point home.

“Hellfire, Rysh, just look at the boy, blushing hot as a forest fire. He’s been there with them.”

“And I’ll bet they’re good—they’d have to be with those five boys to keep happy,” Rysh added, winking.

“Dunno about the old guy.” Emerson chuckled. “He don’t look like he could keep it up enough.”