Read Online Doomsday Warrior 16 - American Overthrow by Ryder Stacy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ryder Stacy
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death.
“Makes you want to just sigh, roll up your trouser legs and get a fishing line and snooze beneath those snow jeweled peaks forever,” Detroit said as he rode alongside Rockson down the momentarily wide deer trail that led down the upper slopes.
Archer and Chen rode together ten yards behind, but both men were silent, Chen because he had little to say as was usually the case, and the giant Archer because he was a near-mute and preferred, like the Chinese American, to just take it all in. Talking was not his strong suit.
“You can say that again,” Rockson replied with a wry grin. He gazed at the towering peaks, the blankets of firs, coating all in a loving embrace. But as much as he tried to relax and allow the majestic Rocky Mountain sights to soothe his soul, he couldn’t. The dark cloud that he had felt since the messenger had come and alerted them two days before hung over him and grew thicker by the hour. Rarely had his mutant senses felt quite so alert. His whole body was tingling.
They made their way across high slopes for a good part of the day and then began descending slightly as they headed northeast. Pattonville was three hundred and fifty miles to the north and east, a good ride through fairly treacherous terrain. Rockson figured five days if they were lucky, a lot more if they weren’t. The ’brids could move their asses when the weather was right and they weren’t in ornery moods, both of which so far seemed to be the case.
In late afternoon, they passed a whole mountainside filled with goats; big dudes with horns the size of diesel truck springs. They were presided over by an oversized mutant goat, all black and as big as a small bull. The dominant male of the flock looked down at the passing hybrids with scorn, standing on an outcropping, his body rigid as his reddish eyes glared down. He was perhaps daring them to even try to take over his territory or steal any of his females. None of which any of the Freefighters was ready to fight over. They passed by just a few hundred feet below as the other goats ran wildly in all directions bleating like an out of tune choir.
“FOOOOD,” Archer bellowed as he started to unsling his huge crossbow from around his back.
“No, pal,” Rockson laughed, turning around in the saddle and shouting to the bear of a Freefighter. “Don’t have time for all that. We’ve got enough supplies,” he said, patting the side of the saddle bag. Shecter’s field tech boys had loaded them up with high energy concentrates that took up little room but packed a hell of a lot nutritionally. They just didn’t have time to play around with hunting scenes. Rock knew that Archer hated the energy packs. But he could afford to lose a few pounds on the road, hitting the scales at something over 425 lbs. He’d live.
“SHHIIIIT!” the near mute growled with disgust letting the crossbow fall back again just as his eyes had connected with a big fat sucker of a goat. That goat saw what was in his eyes and went tearing off over the rise.
They rode on for several hours without stopping. The men knew the routine. Lunch was on board the ’brids, just chewing on whatever they could dig out from the food bags. Water jugs were tied up alongside too. They were mobile and self-sufficient. Had better be!
Rockson was just starting to feel his mood lighten slightly for no particular reason other than they were at least making decent time. Then his eyes caught a darkness in the skies ahead. His heart skipped a beat. He took out his field binocs and focused in on the dark mass some twenty miles ahead, without slowing his ’brid Snorter, whose big legs clomped effortlessly down the mountain path. It took a few seconds to get the glasses adjusted just right. And then his heart skipped a few more beats.
The sky was a churning sea of blackness, a sheer malevolence of clouds extending in all directions. It was like a thing alive, boiling and extending out with pseudopods of black
“Makes you want to just sigh, roll up your trouser legs and get a fishing line and snooze beneath those snow jeweled peaks forever,” Detroit said as he rode alongside Rockson down the momentarily wide deer trail that led down the upper slopes.
Archer and Chen rode together ten yards behind, but both men were silent, Chen because he had little to say as was usually the case, and the giant Archer because he was a near-mute and preferred, like the Chinese American, to just take it all in. Talking was not his strong suit.
“You can say that again,” Rockson replied with a wry grin. He gazed at the towering peaks, the blankets of firs, coating all in a loving embrace. But as much as he tried to relax and allow the majestic Rocky Mountain sights to soothe his soul, he couldn’t. The dark cloud that he had felt since the messenger had come and alerted them two days before hung over him and grew thicker by the hour. Rarely had his mutant senses felt quite so alert. His whole body was tingling.
They made their way across high slopes for a good part of the day and then began descending slightly as they headed northeast. Pattonville was three hundred and fifty miles to the north and east, a good ride through fairly treacherous terrain. Rockson figured five days if they were lucky, a lot more if they weren’t. The ’brids could move their asses when the weather was right and they weren’t in ornery moods, both of which so far seemed to be the case.
In late afternoon, they passed a whole mountainside filled with goats; big dudes with horns the size of diesel truck springs. They were presided over by an oversized mutant goat, all black and as big as a small bull. The dominant male of the flock looked down at the passing hybrids with scorn, standing on an outcropping, his body rigid as his reddish eyes glared down. He was perhaps daring them to even try to take over his territory or steal any of his females. None of which any of the Freefighters was ready to fight over. They passed by just a few hundred feet below as the other goats ran wildly in all directions bleating like an out of tune choir.
“FOOOOD,” Archer bellowed as he started to unsling his huge crossbow from around his back.
“No, pal,” Rockson laughed, turning around in the saddle and shouting to the bear of a Freefighter. “Don’t have time for all that. We’ve got enough supplies,” he said, patting the side of the saddle bag. Shecter’s field tech boys had loaded them up with high energy concentrates that took up little room but packed a hell of a lot nutritionally. They just didn’t have time to play around with hunting scenes. Rock knew that Archer hated the energy packs. But he could afford to lose a few pounds on the road, hitting the scales at something over 425 lbs. He’d live.
“SHHIIIIT!” the near mute growled with disgust letting the crossbow fall back again just as his eyes had connected with a big fat sucker of a goat. That goat saw what was in his eyes and went tearing off over the rise.
They rode on for several hours without stopping. The men knew the routine. Lunch was on board the ’brids, just chewing on whatever they could dig out from the food bags. Water jugs were tied up alongside too. They were mobile and self-sufficient. Had better be!
Rockson was just starting to feel his mood lighten slightly for no particular reason other than they were at least making decent time. Then his eyes caught a darkness in the skies ahead. His heart skipped a beat. He took out his field binocs and focused in on the dark mass some twenty miles ahead, without slowing his ’brid Snorter, whose big legs clomped effortlessly down the mountain path. It took a few seconds to get the glasses adjusted just right. And then his heart skipped a few more beats.
The sky was a churning sea of blackness, a sheer malevolence of clouds extending in all directions. It was like a thing alive, boiling and extending out with pseudopods of black
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