Free Wretched Earth by James Axler

being slammed on the metal roof every time the bus bounced over an unseen
obstacle or crashed down onto ground as hard as a baron’s heart, each time
threatening destruction to its ancient suspension. Meanwhile the back of her was
freezing through from the ice-blast wind of passage, especially her legs,
covered only by the thin fabric of her camo pants.
    Every bounce also reminded her that the dark country abounded
with hiding places for lurking foes. Not just the changed, either. Lethal
predators abounded in the Deathlands, animal, mutie and human.
    Shadows seemed to flit across the shadowed land. A score of
times Mildred opened her mouth to cry an alarm, or slipped her gloved finger
into the trigger guard of her Czech-made .38-caliber target revolver. Each time
she held herself back from screaming or shooting. And each time no attack
came.
    She was horribly aware that didn’t mean the threats she thought
she saw in the shadows weren’t real.
    The bus picked up speed, trading the occasional bone-slamming
jolt for a constant rattle that felt as if it might detach Mildred’s retinas.
But she gritted her teeth and hung on.
    Because one thing she’d learned, more than a century before
she’d ever opened her eyes to this terrible new world, was to endure.
    * * *
    A N HOUR LATER the bus rumbled to a
stop in a sandy wash next to a slowly moving stream. Steam rolled from under the
hood. The engine hissed and pinged as it cooled.
    “What’s happening?” Ryan called.
    “Driver says he thinks we’re far enough away to take a break.”
Krysty called back. “He says we’ve come about thirty miles.”
    “Great,” J.B. said. “I could stand to try to winch my bones
straight again. The knots in my muscles’re getting knots in them.”
    “All right,” Ryan said. “Everybody cut loose. Keep eyes skinned
and blasters ready.”
    “Really, friend Ryan,” Doc croaked, “sometimes you belabor the
obvious.”
    Ryan stood and stretched. He felt about the same way J.B.
did—as if some triple-size mutie had grabbed his ankles and tried to bust
boulders using Ryan as a hammer.
    The door opened and passengers spilled out onto drifted sand.
Some fell weakly to hands and knees. Somebody puked noisily.
    A woman with a hood pulled up over her head scarf stopped after
several paces and turned to look up at Ryan.
    “Any of our brothers and sisters up there with you?”
    “No,” he said.
    She gazed up at him for a spell, then turned and walked
off.
    “What that about?” Jak asked, walking up to Ryan. He moved with
his customary youthful-predator swagger. Ryan shrugged in response. He reckoned
Jak didn’t feel much better than anybody else, but had enough resilience to hide
it better.
    The one-eyed man already knew none of his party was injured. It
had been hard to make himself heard above the bus’s clatter, but he’d confirmed
that nobody had caught any grief beyond scrapes and bruises.
    And, most importantly, no bites.
    The companions moved off to the side. The cultists and other
refugees showed no interest in mingling with them, and they were just as glad
not to have to answer any uncomfortable questions about the manner in which
they’d hitched a ride. Not to mention the fates of the cultists who’d been atop
the bus with them.
    “A fire would be welcome,” Doc said, rubbing his hands
together. “Restore warmth to chilled bones.”
    In lieu of that they squatted in the lee of the bus. An east
wind had risen during their uncomfortable ride. It came whistling beneath the
wag’s swaybacked undercarriage, cutting through Ryan’s clothes and skin like a
knife.
    “What do you plan to burn for fuel, you old coot?” Mildred
asked. “Your extra long johns from your pack?”
    They had unloaded their backpacks from the luggage rack, just
in case they needed to make their own way out of there in a hurry. Or in case
some of the cultists unexpectedly drove off.
    “What are those rad-blasted creatures?” Ryan said, ignoring