The four of them travelled swiftly, aware that their enemies – and their deaths – were never far behind.
Mercy led. She insisted that, since she was the most adept healer, and their enemies were behind them, she should travel in front. Her staff in her right hand, pistol in the left, she seemed to glide across the desert, vibrantly hot sand sending heat waves through the air around her. Behind her was Tracy, supported by Mike, still stumbling and weak. Bringing up the lead was Reaper, his bone mask emotionlessly facing the defeat, the heat, the barren dead earth.
And in the distance: engines.
'Your sword,' Reaper's voice broke into Mike's thoughts. 'What is it?'
Mike fought the urge to correct him. It was a katana, a Japanese blade of ferocious, bloodthirsty design. But more than that it was as far from any sword you would ever see as it was not made from any conventional material. Some legends said it was soul-steel, others made from the molten metal of a star. Whatever legend you chose to believe, it cut through man and machine with equal ease, like sharpened scissors slicing paper. It was stolen, as were the shuriken stars he carried.
'It is unique,' Mike answered. Reaper said nothing more. Perhaps he sensed the defensiveness. Perhaps he just didn't care.
'Structure up ahead!' Mercy called. Mike looked into the distance and saw it; a gas station, complete with neon lights. At least he assumed they were neon. They were not flashing now, and he guessed they had not been in several years. Not since the Fallout, at least.
Reaper came up alongside, and took half of Tracy's weight under his own shoulder. They picked up the pace. Neither man said anything, though Mike was grateful for the assistance. These two altruistic strangers had already been more helpful than he could have hoped for – more helpful than he deserved for what he had done.
'We don't have long,' Tracy whispered. She was still weak, struggling to regain full strength at this uncomfortable speed. But she was right. They could all hear the engines not far behind. It was only a matter of minutes before the machines caught them.
Still, Mike did not want to address their problems. He kept his voice calm, smooth, steady.
'Relax, Tracy. Just focus on your breathing.'
No more than an hour ago her stomach had been cut open by a jagged-edged machine racing past. She should not be alive – in fact neither of them should be. If not for Mercy, the mysterious healer, and her grim friend Reaper, they would both be dead…
Mercy halted so swiftly that the other three almost ran into her.
'What's wrong?' Reaper asked, his voice echoing in the back of Mike's mind.
'Look,' Mercy gestured.
Mike was impatient to be moving ahead. The desert seemed to be closing in around them. The gas station – the first structure he had stumbled across in the last week – was a beacon of hope. In any other direction signalled. And behind them, aching to catch up, was a quick and painful death on treaded wheels. If he strained hard enough he fancied he could almost count the engines. A dozen? Two? He would have guessed at least fifteen motorised marauders.
'What am I looking at?' Mike asked.
No sooner had he spoken did he see the problem. Standing on the roof of the gas station, weapons in each hands and with an enormous, bulging stomach, was a fat man with a gas mask and nasty eyes. The man laughed, his bulk shaking, his voice somehow booming across the desert to them.
'Welcome to Route 66!' the fat man roared. 'Now… fuck off!'
It was Mercy's idea to hang back. Later, when Mike was able to look back on the day with the benefit of hindsight, he would see just how right she had been. But at the time he was impatient.
'We are being followed, and we have an injured!' Mike called. He glanced behind him. A storm of dust was rising in the near distance. They had minutes at best. 'Will you allow us to get closer?'
The fat man pulled off his gas-mask and grinned. There seemed to be a series of straps around his arms and stomach, holding an apparatus to his back. Mike could not clearly make out the weapons he was carrying, but they seemed to be a small, stocky gun and a hook.
'Why should I?' the big man asked.
'The force that follows us is big enough to destroy you too,' Mercy answered. 'Together we can hold them. Alone we can only perish.'
The fat man glanced at Mercy as if for the first time. He looked her up and down, appraising her skin-tight defence-wear and simple weapons. She looked at ease in the desert, in the destruction. As if the apocalypse was just one more thing on her to-do list waiting to be ticked off.
'I ain't worried about the robots. I'm hiding on a rooftop. So, like I said,' the big man growled, voice throaty like an engine, 'what do I get out of it?'
Mercy turned in disgust. Reaper looked at her. Or at least it seemed as though he did. The expressionless mask with the dark eyes was hard to read. In any case Reaper was facing Mercy.
'We cannot rely on that beast,' Mercy said.
'I agree.'
'But we cannot abandon these two either.'
Reaper turned to Mike and Tracy. He seemed unimpressed, though it was hard to tell what he was thinking in any scenario. Still, he agreed with Mercy, which Mike could only be thankful for.
'Not if we can help it.'
Mercy nodded. 'Then we fight.'
She slapped a button on her grimy, white breast plate, and the strangest thing happened: two large wings spread from her back. They were angelic looking wings, draped by long white feathers, but they looked sharp and fierce. These may be wings, but they were built for offence as much as they were for flying. He wondered if Mercy could fly. He wondered if they were a genetic alteration, organised by the government, or a cleverly designed mechanical suit. He did not have time to think about the answer.
Reaper drew his two shotguns once more, and stood side to side with Mercy as the robots rolled over the nearest hill, a cloud of dust and sand sweeping along behind them.
'Here,' Reaper said, 'is as good a place as any.'
Mercy turned to Mike. 'Take Tracy. Not to the gas station – I do not trust that fat man. Head for the cliffs over there.'
As she pointed Mike could see exactly what she meant. Set into the cliff face was a sloping ramp; he could not tell if it was man-made or a natural feature, but it was easy enough to climb. He took as much of Tracy's weight over his shoulder as he could and began limping forward. He felt bad leaving Mercy and Reaper behind, but they seemed like perfectly capable warriors. Then again, anyone who had lasted this long in the apocalyptic world was.
Mike stumbled up the ramp, looking over his shoulder. The robots closed in on Reaper and Mercy, and the partners flared into action. It was stunning to watch. Mercy moved in amongst the enemies, her wings darting up and down like extra limbs, cutting the robots down and flinging them away as they got close. Bullets shot through the air around her, but she dodged them somehow, always staying low and twisting out of the paths of her foes. She wielded the staff with both hands now, jabbing it left and right, impaling the machines where possible, and simply knocking them off course when not.
One of the machines tried to grab at her with spindly arms, but she wrestled it away. When it came in for a second charge she covered her body with both wings and flung them out, knocking the robot into the air as if it weighed less than a child. It hung in the apex of its flight for just a moment…
Reaper was underneath it, his guns barking in the echoing desert. A single upward shot blasted the machine to smithereens, and then he was turning to face the next robot. They created a semi-circle, enclosing the pair from all angles, but Reaper and Mercy their way around in a back-to-back formation, never allowing the enemies to get the better of them.
At one point when there were only a few enemies left Mercy leapt into the air, her wings flapping around her. She threw her staff down like a spear, and it split the head of the nearest machine, slamming into the ground. Then, still hovering, she drew her pistol and fired six quick shots. The few remaining robots each took critical blows to their heads and came to a shuddering halt.
Reaper, full of vengeance, raised his gun and fired a final blast that knocked two of the robots down. Then he tossed the empty gun away and drew another. Mike chuckled.
Mike's chuckle died on his lips. He had been too distracted – he had not been paying attention. He had not noticed the robot that was rushing towards him. He tried to lower Tracy, but he could not do it quickly enough without dumping her, and he was afraid of hurting her further. He fumbled for the stolen shuriken stars at his hip, and when he could not unclasp the pocket he tried to draw his katana. It, too, seemed stuck in its sheath.
'Baka!' he swore, watching as the machine closed the distance between them…
A hook flew through the air. It stabbed into the side of the robot, caught it tight, and hung there for an instant of a second. In that instant Mike stared at the robot, almost imagining he could see the confusion in its dead, electronic eyes. And then, with unexpected suddenness, the robot was whisked away.
Mike followed its path. The hook, which was attached to a long chain, seemed to be attached to a winch on the fat man's back. He was not sure how the mechanics worked – though he was anxious to have a closer look – but he could see that the machine had drawn the robot back toward the fat man.
When it was close enough the defender of the gas station released the hook from the side of the machine with his left hand, raised his right hand (which held a bulky shotgun), and pulled the trigger. The blast echoed against the cliff faces, shaking the quiet canyon, as pieces of steel and circuitry were blown apart and strewn across the dusty highway.
The king of the gas station looked around with smug satisfaction, first at Mike and Tracy, then at Mercy and Reaper.
'Call me Road Hog,' he snorted, voice rumbly and deep. 'Welcome to my highway. And tell me, what the fuck are you doing here?'
Mercy was the one who stepped forward. She lowered her staff and holstered her pistol. When she spoke it was with an uncompromising tone. 'We need water,' she said, 'and we need to pass through your home to the other side of this canyon. We will achieve both goals whether you wish to allow us or not.'
The obese man who called himself Road Hog grinned yet again.
'Well, ain't that nice.'