Read Online These Dead Lands: Immolation by Stephen Knight, Scott Wolf - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Knight, Scott Wolf
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eyes widened. “Well, maybe a little less than that. Here come some of them.” She popped the helmet back on her head and spun the bike around.
“Hold on!” Hastings shouted.
The woman ignored him and started to ride away, but she must’ve thought better of it, because she stopped forty feet or so down the road. A late model black-over-tan Dodge dually pickup rounded the bend. Two men squatted in the bed, both with beards and wearing old woodland camouflage battle dress and grimy baseball caps worn backward. At least two more men sat inside the cab. They had all been hooting and yelling until they spotted Stilley’s Humvee. Tharinger spun the .50 around until he had it leveled on the big Dodge 3500.
“Captain, let me know what you want me to do!” Tharinger called.
“If they start shooting, you’re clear to fire,” Hastings said. “Ballantine, call Hartman and Guerra forward. Reader, back me up!”
Hastings hurried over to the side of the road, M4 at his shoulder, and motioned for the truck to stop. The driver didn’t seem inclined to comply, so Hastings fired a single round through the enormous chrome grille. The big truck stopped so abruptly that the two men in the back nearly catapulted over the cab. Over his radio, he heard Ballantine call the second Humvee forward, and from the corner of his eye.
Reader trotted toward the rear of the truck, covering the two men there with his assault rifle. “Do not fucking move!”
“What the fuck is this?” one of the men in the back hollered. His nose was bleeding, and he must have dropped his rifle. But he kept his hands up in the air. His companion still had his weapon, a mean-looking tactical shotgun, but he hadn’t pointed it anyone. Yet.
“United States Army!” Hastings shouted, staring down the men in the cab. “Exit the vehicle immediately, or you will be fired upon!”
The driver’s eyes widened, and he held his hands up over the steering wheel. The man in the passenger seat didn’t seem nearly as intimidated as he practically glared at Hastings through the glass. While the driver was overweight and sported an ill-groomed goatee and mustache, his cherubic face framed by a virtual waterfall of greasy brown hair, the man beside him was slender and blond. His hair was in a long ponytail, and he appeared to have retained some general sense of what hygiene was.
“There ain’t no Army anymore, motherfucker!” the man with the shotgun in the back yelled. “Why the fuck are you stopping us?”
“Get out of the truck, or you will be fired on!” Hastings repeated. “Five seconds! Tharinger, stand ready to fire into the cab on my count! Five! Four! Three! Two—”
The two men jumped out of the bed. Reader took a few steps back, keeping them both lined up in his targeting picture. The driver’s door slowly opened, and the fat one half fell out of the truck. He wore a stained black T-shirt, worn black jeans, and battered cowboy boots. A white Stetson fell to the road at his feet, and he looked down as if contemplating whether or not to pick it up. A chrome-finished pistol was tucked into his waistband. The pony-tailed man kept his eyes locked on Hastings as he slowly opened the door. Something about the furtiveness of his movements was troubling.
“Passenger! Remain where you are!” Hastings reinforced the command by sighting on the man’s head through the red dot scope on top of his rifle.
Ponytail sneered but stayed seated.
“What the fuck is this?” the man with the shotgun shouted.
“Reader, if that man does not put down his shotgun in three seconds, kill both of them,” Hastings said.
“Roger that,” Reader replied. “Boys, dump whatever weapons you have right now, or I’ll shoot. Three. Two—”
“Fuck you!” The man raised his shotgun.
Reader fired three rounds into the man’s chest, driving him back against the truck.
With a shriek, the guy with the bloody nose held up his hands, then he went to his knees as the
“Hold on!” Hastings shouted.
The woman ignored him and started to ride away, but she must’ve thought better of it, because she stopped forty feet or so down the road. A late model black-over-tan Dodge dually pickup rounded the bend. Two men squatted in the bed, both with beards and wearing old woodland camouflage battle dress and grimy baseball caps worn backward. At least two more men sat inside the cab. They had all been hooting and yelling until they spotted Stilley’s Humvee. Tharinger spun the .50 around until he had it leveled on the big Dodge 3500.
“Captain, let me know what you want me to do!” Tharinger called.
“If they start shooting, you’re clear to fire,” Hastings said. “Ballantine, call Hartman and Guerra forward. Reader, back me up!”
Hastings hurried over to the side of the road, M4 at his shoulder, and motioned for the truck to stop. The driver didn’t seem inclined to comply, so Hastings fired a single round through the enormous chrome grille. The big truck stopped so abruptly that the two men in the back nearly catapulted over the cab. Over his radio, he heard Ballantine call the second Humvee forward, and from the corner of his eye.
Reader trotted toward the rear of the truck, covering the two men there with his assault rifle. “Do not fucking move!”
“What the fuck is this?” one of the men in the back hollered. His nose was bleeding, and he must have dropped his rifle. But he kept his hands up in the air. His companion still had his weapon, a mean-looking tactical shotgun, but he hadn’t pointed it anyone. Yet.
“United States Army!” Hastings shouted, staring down the men in the cab. “Exit the vehicle immediately, or you will be fired upon!”
The driver’s eyes widened, and he held his hands up over the steering wheel. The man in the passenger seat didn’t seem nearly as intimidated as he practically glared at Hastings through the glass. While the driver was overweight and sported an ill-groomed goatee and mustache, his cherubic face framed by a virtual waterfall of greasy brown hair, the man beside him was slender and blond. His hair was in a long ponytail, and he appeared to have retained some general sense of what hygiene was.
“There ain’t no Army anymore, motherfucker!” the man with the shotgun in the back yelled. “Why the fuck are you stopping us?”
“Get out of the truck, or you will be fired on!” Hastings repeated. “Five seconds! Tharinger, stand ready to fire into the cab on my count! Five! Four! Three! Two—”
The two men jumped out of the bed. Reader took a few steps back, keeping them both lined up in his targeting picture. The driver’s door slowly opened, and the fat one half fell out of the truck. He wore a stained black T-shirt, worn black jeans, and battered cowboy boots. A white Stetson fell to the road at his feet, and he looked down as if contemplating whether or not to pick it up. A chrome-finished pistol was tucked into his waistband. The pony-tailed man kept his eyes locked on Hastings as he slowly opened the door. Something about the furtiveness of his movements was troubling.
“Passenger! Remain where you are!” Hastings reinforced the command by sighting on the man’s head through the red dot scope on top of his rifle.
Ponytail sneered but stayed seated.
“What the fuck is this?” the man with the shotgun shouted.
“Reader, if that man does not put down his shotgun in three seconds, kill both of them,” Hastings said.
“Roger that,” Reader replied. “Boys, dump whatever weapons you have right now, or I’ll shoot. Three. Two—”
“Fuck you!” The man raised his shotgun.
Reader fired three rounds into the man’s chest, driving him back against the truck.
With a shriek, the guy with the bloody nose held up his hands, then he went to his knees as the
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