GunBarrel Gauntlet: The Last Bronze II

24. Deal Gone Bad.

With the exchange of fuel for water now complete, Scratch, Shamrock, and the Nomad were herded back into the holding cage atop the empty tanker, alongside the three that had remained. The Skin Pirates did not make a move until the other faction had turned out of the meeting grounds and left via the northern line of the Gauntlet, Pigface and the Nipplebiter remaining observant as the rear-end of the El Dorado carriages dimmed into the ochre fields of the lifeless horizon.

Gathering themselves together at the front of the cage overlooking the truck cabin, Carrion was eager to learn the outcome of the negotiation with the woman from El Dorado.

"So, how'd it go? Are they going to help Sanctuary?"

"It's not go'nna be easy; there's a chance, a slim chance, but we won't know 'til they send a messenger to parley wit' us back at tha Junkyards." Shamrock explained.

As Carrion and Shamrock spoke, the Nomad put his back to the cage, surreptitiously spying on the movements of the rest of the Skin Pirates. He had a gut feeling that something wasn't quite right, that their behaviour was restrained in some way he couldn't as yet define.

Engaging their ignition systems, the collection of raiders began to move out in a line formation, returning south along the highway. Further discussions ceased for those waiting in the exposed cage, words drowned out in the drone of engines and wind friction once the trucks had accelerated to a cruising speed behind the F-100 Ford vanguard.

An odd movement in the rear view mirrors had the Nomad's attention, observing the reflection of the truck's driver passing his finger down his own brow and cheek in a zigzag motion. In the digit's aftermath there was left a trail of grease and blood, the sign of the thunderbolt painted over their right eye.

In that moment, the Nomad knew that Hell was coming.

Shaking the others by the arm in warning, they came alert, eyes moving in all directions of the compass to prepare themselves for whatever it was that the Nomad had seen.

The chassis of the ford pickup dipped suddenly as it pushed into the wind resistance with an uptake in speed, leaving a wide gap between itself and the convoy as it shot ahead of them. Then came the Kenworth water tanker, slipping out of the line behind the empty fuel tanker to pass alongside it on the right lane, the guards whom rode its deck turning their thunderbolt marked faces toward the six Scabeaters as the vehicles exchanged positions. Within ten seconds they had overtaken the fuel tanker entirely, returning to the left lane in second place after the pickup.

Alarmed at the reorganization of the travelling convoy, Carrion and the others could feel the vibrations of the fuel tanker winding down gears, becoming sluggish in momentum as the rest of the Skin Pirates left it trailing in their wake.

Before the four guards inside the cage could raise the barrels of their crank guns and exterminate the raggedy figures of the Scabeaters, the Nomad had already drawn his Colt Python, firing at one of them from the hidden shadow of his dagged sleeve.

Falling off balance into the remaining three Pirates with a bullet wound to the chest, the dead weight of their fallen comrade stole the initiative as they tangled together at the stern end of the deck. Darting across the avenue of open space to smother them before they could recover in time, the cloaked captives struck at them with every limb available in a desperate flurry of violence to subdue the Pirates and take their arms.

Swinging the business end of the barrel away from her jaw as it discharged hot lead past her ear, Carrion twisted the crank gun out of the raider's fingers with a grimace of determination, rotating the stock back into the other's head as the grip was relinquished.

Sprouting bullet wounds peppered the other guards soon afterward, delivered from the smoking muzzle of the rifle now in Scratch's possession.

From the roadside debris of rusting car bodies there emerged a light cavalry of dirt bikes, launching out from behind their cover in a puff of dust. Bounding over the rough terrain until they reached the concrete lanes, their numbers coalesced behind the fuel tanker in an arrow of pursuit.

"The driver! Get to the driver!" The Nomad shouted over the chaos, pointing toward the bow of the truck.

Nodding in confirmation, Shamrock and Carrion turned back to face the wind, running at the mesh barrier to leap and climb over the obstacle without pause.

Couching rifles to armpit, Scratch and the remaining occupants of the open-top cage aligned their shots toward the road skating out from under the hauler's wheels, dropping the closest bike riders from their saddles before they could gain further ground.

Riding the roof of the cabin, Shamrock slid down the driver's side and kept his grip with one hand to hang precariously in the rushing air as the other aimed a .38 revolver against the glass. Crystal fractures imploded into the senses of the two occupants, blinding them with shock as the wheel flinched in the driver's hand for a second, swaying the tanker portside.

Before they could recover their equilibrium, Shamrock had lifted the inside handle of the door, kicking it aside with his heels so he could let go of the roof and catch himself on the window pillar before it closed, slamming his body back against the door jamb hard enough to punch his lungs empty.

Fighting for breath, he held on as the driver pummelled his face with a free elbow, door hinges folding back and forth as he swung between the danger of the road speeding under his feet and the menace of his opponents within.

Throwing his legs up as a brace to keep from being crushed again, the Irishman was spitting blood with each laboured exhalation as his skinned knuckles still held the .38, hooking his forearm around the door pillar to squeeze the trigger as he held on.

Yanking the wheel, the driver with the lightning stained eye ducked as the length of the vehicle flicked out like a whip, the momentum compressing the door at an acute angle to divert the bullet into the glass on the opposite side, Carrion recoiling from the shards during her own endeavours to scale the side of the moving vehicle in an attempt to reach the passenger side.

Clawing at the driver's face to smother his sight and breath, Shamrock snapped the pistol's hammer again and again through the missing window, but the chambers were empty. In the door's side mirrors his peripheral caught the slashing blur of a machete in the grip of a biker.

Repelling himself away from the cabin as he clung to the swinging door, the blade passed through the space he had just occupied. The biker drew closer, machete poised over their shoulder to hack again until their body flexed in sudden injury, dismounted by a bullet to the spine that sent them reeling into the unforgiving concrete of the Gauntlet.

Raising his eyes to the form of the Nomad watching over him from the cage, Shamrock touched his bleeding brow in a salute of gratitude, then he returned his attention to the task at hand; usurping control of the tanker.