It was not far past dawn, but the heat of the
morning was already cutting into Bonner's shoulders. Absently, he ran a hand through his
hair. It felt hot and brittle, dirty with sweat and the sun. Somewhere he would have to
find himself some water and wash. He imagined dousing his body with cool water in a stream
somewhere, cleansing himself of heat and fatigue, the way crazy old Preacher said he could
do the same thing to sin.
The bomb had blown away everything. Even sin.
Nothing was a sin anymoreunless you counted getting yourself taken down or robbed of
something you had killed to own yourself. That was always Dara's problem, Bonner thought,
she lived in a new bad world but she carried the baggage of the old bad world with her.
She wanted to kill Leather because she thought
him evil. She had decided that he didn't deserve to liveas if being robbed of life
in this time was some
38
terrible forfeithe had to be
punished. As far as she was concerned he was like the rad that ruined the water and turned
the soil and air into gray death, useless, evil . . .
Bonner wanted Leather dead because he was
an enemy. For a couple of hundred miles, two days of hard travelling, Bonner had listened
to his engine and held one thought in his mind: nothing personal, Leather, nothing
personal . . .
He saw himself standing behind the
chattering fifty calibre, cutting Leather's big body into pieces with a long, hot spray of
shells: nothing personal . . .
He saw all three of his blades scything
hilt deep into Leather's paunch: nothing personal . . .
He heard the contemptuous snort of the
Winchester and saw the shells slamming into Leather's scarred face, stripping away the
flesh, laying bare the bone:
nothing personal . . .
He could feel his hands closing around
Leather's muscled throat, feel the collapse of the delicate traceries of bone and
cartilage under his fingertips: nothing personal . . .
Bonner was staring out over the hood, his
grip on the wheel growing stronger until, with a start, he brought himself back to the hot
morning.
He was about forty miles from Detroit, or
rather, what had once been Detroit, and was running out of gas. A ways up the highway he
would get to the oasis. He wondered if anyone had found his cache. Why not? he wondered.
It was there, all you had to do was look for it. If someone took what he needed
39
and moved on, that was fine by him. If they
got any ideas that the vast underground pool of fuel belonged to them, then they were
buying trouble. Deep in the back of Bonner's brain there came a feeling that he had known
before: he was sick of killinghe chased the thought from his mind. To stop killing
was to die. What was wrong with that? a voice asked. Bonner couldn't answer that one.
By the time the sun reached its zenith,
Bonner was driving through the broken streets of the town that held the fuel reserve. He
had never paused long enough in the rains to find out the name of the place. To Bonner and
Seth and a few of the others who knew the secrets of the town it was just called the
oasis. It was one of the many strung out along the roads.
Bonner stopped in front of an expanse of
gray paving that fronted the street. The few foundation stones of the old office and the
place where the pumps had been could still be seen. A metal plug about a foot across was
set into the concrete. Bonner levered it up and peered within. The heady smell of gasoline
rushed up to his nostrils. A faint shimmer dappled the liquid below him and he could see
that there was plenty left. Quickly, he began lowering the bucket that lay by the plug
into the gloom. Within the hour he had filled his tank and was ready to head on.
Before starting the engine, though, he paused,
his head cocked into the wind like an animal listening for danger. On the edge of a
breeze, Bonner could hear
40
an approaching engine. It was the high
whine of a tough little motor plainly working its guts out. Bon-ner smiled. He knew the
sound and was a good friend of the driver.
A few minutes later, Starling, mounted on
that crazy looking tricycle of his, hove into view. The two big fat tires that capped the
rear axle made the vehicle look like it could climb a cliff face. Starling bounced down
the street looking like a fanner on a tractor. He grinned out from between the two huge
tires.
"Well, damn me," he yelled over
the howl of his engine, "Mr. Bonner himself."
"Hey, Starling," Bonner called
back, "what brings you here?"
"You know me, always looking. Always
looking for love." He shut down the engine and slid from the saddle. He grasped
Bonner's hand. "Sure am glad to see you. I ain't had a friendly word with no one in
many a day. Penn's crawling with Stormers. They shot at my ass for about a hundred
miles."
"I saw Coldchip. He said the same
thing."
Starling's face split in a wide grin.
"Coldchip. No shit. How's he doing?"
"Not so good."
"Oh," said Starling, "did
you . . . ?"
"Yes," said Bonner, " 'fraid
so."
Starling set about busying himself with his
car. He was a tall, wiry man, his face burnt dark brown by the sun. He was as strong as a
bull and as fast as a whip. He carried a gun, of course, but his preferred
41
weapon was a bow and arrow. He made his own
steel shafts with tips that packed an ounce or so of explosive powder. Bonner hated the
sound of one of those little terrors hitting a man's body. Their effect was devastating.
"Damn," said Starling. "I
would have thought that Coldchip had more sense than that."
"I think it was a spur of the moment
decision. He didn't think about what he was doing."
"Don't feel bad, Bonner. Ain't your
fault."
Bonner shrugged.
Starling was filling the big tank of his
cycle. The morning air was thick with gas fumes.
"One of these days all this shit is
going to run out."
"It'll all be gone some day."
"Us too. Even you, Bonner."
"Even me."
"So which way you headed?"
"I'm inbound."
"You know what I heard?"
"Yeah," said Bonner, "you
heard that Leather has put a price on my head. Ten thousand gold slates, right?"
"That's right. How did you know?"
Bonner smiled grimly. "How did I know.
Remember Hatchet?''
"Yeah," said Starling, "I
remember Hatchet. What a second rate piece of shit he was."
"Well," said Bonner,
"Leather sent Hatchet to tell me."
42
"Leather sent Hatchet? He sent Hatchet
to bring you down? And Hatchet went? Jeez, what a fool."
"And I guess that Hatchet told every
raider, smuggler and street-worker between the cap and here that Leather wanted me dead.
Coldchip and his men tried to collect and I always thought he was a friend of mine
too."
"Well, if it sets your mind at rest,
Bonner, I ain't going to try to collect. I mean you got to be pretty stupid if you think
that for hauling you in Leather is going to say: 'Good job. Here's your cash.' Besides
which, I don't want to try and take you. I like you alive."
"I'm relieved to hear it."
"Let me guess," said Starling,
"you are inbound to see your old friend Leather and see if you can't work out this
stuff about having a price on your head."
Bonner nodded.
"Let me come with you."
"I thought you just said you got your
ass blasted for a hundred miles."
"Yeah, so what?"
"And you're outbound for Chi, so why
do you want to go and get yourself shot at again?"
"I'm bored."
"That's all?"
"And I love to travel. I have a hunch
that you are going all the way to the Cap and that when you get there you are going to
need some help. Besides, I
43
haven't seen Leather since I don't know
when. It'll be a nice Outrider reunion."
Bonner hesitated a moment.
"Come on, Bonner, don't tell me that
you can make it all the way in and all the way out and think you're going to do it
yourself. I don't have to tell you that I'm a pretty tough bring-down myself."
"Beats me why you would do this if you
didn't have to."
"Why do you have to, Bonner? So
Leather's put a price on your head? Big fucking deal ..."
"I heard he's got Dara."
Starling looked somber all of a sudden.
"Oh shit, this is going to be a hot one, isn't it?"
Bonner nodded. "If you want out . .
."
"No, I'll go. You know me, I'll do
anything to be liked."
They rode for a good twelve hours before
stopping for the night. Before falling asleep Starling said: "I met a guy who said
that a Starling was a kind of bird. What I wanted to know was what the fuck was a bird. He
said they were little things that flew around and just, you know, hung out in trees. Can
you imagine that? What a fucking world it used to be."
Bonner was asleep already.