The left tank fired. Rocked back and swiveled hard. I had taken out the targeting system and the missile flew over the truck cab.
“Bloody goat-fucking damn!” Cupcake shouted.
Mateo said into my earbud, “There will be a remote operator for each tank. They will have already offloaded into the trees. Each will be holding two controllers for tank and weapons systems or one larger integrated controller.”
“Behind the squarish rock on the left,” Cupcake said over comms. “Maybe a hundred feet ahead.”
I pinpointed the form on the scanner and reset the Para Gen to full AI auto-target assist, manual fire. I fired three rounds. A man in faded black camo reeled off to the side. A bloody smear marked the rock. The tank on the left careened off the road and took two men with it.
Cupcake accelerated.
More men bolted out of the woods. Firing everything they had.
The glass at Cupcake’s face was armored, but silk-plaz wouldn’t stand up to one of the massive rounds on the remaining tank or stop the laser if they got it going. I hit the Para Gen to full auto AI and let it take over. It took out four men and targeted the tanks again in the seconds it took me to detach the Radiation Active Denial Rifle at my feet. Then the ParaGen was beeping for more ammo. I had seven rounds in a belt on the floor. The tanks were coming up fast. I scrunched down below the window and let my reflexes take over. Aimed the blaster. Squeezed the lever. It took a sustained three-second burst at six meters or less to totally disable an enemy. Three seconds was forever. The only good thing was that the victims had no idea they were dead until they fell over.
One down.
The cab was taking heavy fire. Rounds ricocheted inside.
I fired again, ticking off three seconds with each blast. The truck lurched and I got one man with only two seconds’ worth, but I left him screaming, so it was long enough.
Cupcake accelerated again, shifting through the gears as smooth as bacon grease.
I aimed. Fired. Another down. Cupcake rammed the side of the right-hand tank. I bounced all over the dash and back into my seat. The cats were on the floor, claws hooked into the rubber. I targeted the energy cell of one tank, then the other. I had no idea what a blaster would do to an energy cell, but I figured the radiation wouldn’t help.
And then we were past the tanks. Past the enemy. I didn’t know if there would be more down the road, so I kept the window down and fed my original belt into the Para Gen. Seven rounds. That was all I had left. I was breathing hard, and sweat was pouring off me, burning into my wounds.
The truck bounced and jarred across the broken pavement. Tree branches overgrowing the street made a rat-a-tat-tat along the cab and truck, throwing shards of tree and leaves inside. I ducked in and out to avoid them.
Time and miles passed. No one came after us.
What seemed like forever later, I said over comms, “I think we’re good.”
“Roger that,” Mateo said.
At my words, most of the cats left the floor for the sleeping compartment. Spy bounced to the dash, settled in a supple coil, and began to groom her feet.
I pulled off the ear protectors and the goggles. Looked at Cupcake.
She was driving with all she had, her hands white, death grips on the wheel and the shifter, feet working the pedals, shoulders held high, her head still ducked low. Her blonde hair had fallen in little spiral curls around her sweaty face. She was breathing with her mouth open, her eyes wide and unblinking. I sat back in my seat and raised my window. We rode for several more minutes as the heat built. No one else appeared. No one else tried to stop us. The river to the side was trickling, summer dry. I opened a water bottle and drained it.
I opened another and held it out to Cupcake.
She took the bottle in one hand. It was shaking. Tears burst out and raced down her face. She took her foot off the accelerator and downshifted, coasting while she drank, her eyes on the road. When the bottle was empty, she passed it back to me.
“Most people saw some action in the war,” she stated, sounding weirdly calm and composed despite the tears. “You?”
My insides clenched. I had night terrors about the war that left me gasping, screaming, and sweating, tears and snot all over me. “I was twelve when it started. I saw some action.” Understatement of the decade.
“I never did. We got the training and the Berger chip upgrades, but we never had to use it. Me and my Old Man were living and working in Kansas City when it fell to the bots. Most of the Angels took off and resettled in St. Louis. Then that chapter was conscripted by the MSA.” She wiped her face, leaving behind a wet sheen of tears. “We survived. I learned how to fire a weapon because I had to, but I never shot anybody. Killed anybody. Until today.”
I looked out the window. The town of Sylvester passed by in a blaze of red metal roofs, fortified houses, and abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Cupcake turned on the A/C and cool air blew in, drying our sweat.
Neither of us said much until we hit I-64. Then Cupcake began talking again. A lot. About everything. Nonstop. Part of me wanted to punch her. The other part was glad to have her back from that panicked, near-silent fugue state.
Until she started singing songs from the thirties. They were probably loud and raucous back then, but they had probably been on key. Any key. At all.Bloody hell. Cupcake sang when she was excited, grieving, and while she was working in the scrapyard. I had a bad feeling that Cupcake sang all the time.
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