Kings of the Road

Chapter 2

by

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Copyright © 2022 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2022 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: HobbsEndBooks@yahoo.com

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For John ...

The thing is, you can’t anticipate everything, can’t be 100% alert every waking second of the day: it’s just not possible, especially when you’ve been walking for something like twelve hours. All we knew was that there’d be a bed for me and that the island of grass in the middle of the lot would work for Ank; and that we hadn’t seen anything since Bowden, anyway (and that had only been a lone edmontosaurus grazing at the side of the road). It certainly hadn’t occurred to us that by walking onto the lot of the Empire Inn and Suites—which was surrounded on three sides by strips of dilapidated units—we might be walking into a kill box.

And yet that’s what it nearly became when the pickups squealed into position (effectively blocking any exit) and the men piled from their payloads—taking cover behind the vehicles like soldiers, like mercenaries, training rifles and pistols. That’s when Ank rolled onto his side so that his armored back was facing them and I took cover myself; bracing the M4 on his wobbling cranium (as I aimed at where one of their fuel tanks would have been), firing a three-round burst—at which Ank shook me off emphatically and juddered his head.

There was a krack, ka-krack, krack! even as bullets ricocheted off his armor.

“And I’ve told you—you have to lie still,” I stepped back and sighted the gas tank again. “That’s how we get out of these messes.”

I fired a single shot and the truck exploded. “Unless you want to charge them, that is.” I took out the other two trucks. “You know, with your big head.”

I watched as a figure stumbled toward us that was completely engulfed in flames—a figure that fell, writhing, even as another tried beating him out with his jacket. And then I waited (for the other men had fled); sighting the would-be rescuer’s left earlobe even as he attempted (and failed) to save his comrade; keeping it sighted as he drew his pistol and aimed it directly at—

Krack! I shot him through the left earlobe.

“Ahhh,” he cried—but quickly re-aimed his pistol.

I shot him through the right earlobe.

“Arrrgg!” The pistol began to waver.

“The next one’ll be between your eyes,” I shouted.

At last, he dropped his weapon.

Ank grumbled as he righted himself, grunted as he stood. he said.

“Kick it toward us,” I demanded, focusing on the man’s shiny forehead. “Hurry up!”

He raised his arms and did as instructed.

“Now, how many of you are there?”

He smiled slowly, stealthily. Gap-toothily. “Down here?” He nodded at the tops of the buildings. “Or up there?”

I froze and looked at Ank, who looked up at the rooftops.

“Go on, take a look,” said the man. “You can count.”

I scanned the peaked roofs and frowned—there were about twenty of them up there; all of them with scoped rifles and wearing helmets—their bodies protected behind dirty gray tiles.

I turned back to the man, who looked to be about thirty. “All right. So. What do you want?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, mister.”

The wind gusted. The long grasses waved.

“Ank,” I breathed at last. “You just can’t b****y anticipate everything.”

And I laid down my weapon.

––––––––

“They work in tandem? But what does that mean?”

The man with the gapped teeth and bloodied ears stepped forward. “It means, m’lord, that, that—I don’t know what it means.” He lowered his chin as though ashamed—before straightening sharply. “Other than that the animal knew precisely what to do once we attacked; precisely how to defend itself—and how to defend the man too. And that the man talks to it—just as you and I are talking.” He looked at Ank and then at me, gloweringly. “Calls it ‘Ank’—when he isn’t shooting at you. Like the devil.”

The old man on the throne (actually a threadbare La-Z-Boy recliner), who’d been introduced to us as King Archie Carrington the First, of Milwaukee—peered down at Ank from the stage. “So, not so much a brute as an intelligent creature, is that it?” He looked at the gap-toothed man—at old b****y Ears. “And you’re telling me this is how I lost several of my best men—and three of my war wagons—simply because you were faced with something inexplicable, something uncanny?”