He pulled her into the passenger seat, wrapped her in his jacket, and drove away before the shockwave of the train’s fuel tanks exploding turned the valley into an oven.
Deep in the biosphere tunnels beneath the ruins of old New York, a pre-Upheaval vault supposedly held a treasure: a pristine, functional M61 Vulcan—a 20mm rotary cannon, six barrels of pure, earth-shattering firepower. The man who held it could clear a valley of Runners, hold off a Rex, or carve a path straight through the territory of the feared Motorcycle Pirates.
Hannah stared at the smoking crater in the rearview mirror, then at the still-hot barrels of the 20 Gun sticking out the back window. “You welded my best welding torch to the floor.”
He found the land-train at high noon, crawling through Salt Flats Valley. Grusilda’s war rig was a monstrosity: a diesel locomotive engine welded to semi-truck trailers, bristling with harpoon guns and steel spikes. Chained to its prow, arms stretched wide like a crucified saint, was Hannah.
The first motorcycle pulled alongside. Jack jerked the wheel, grinding its rider against a rock wall. The second exploded as he let loose a single, deafening BRRRRRRT from the 20 Gun. The rotary cannon chewed the bike, the rider, and the dirt behind them into red vapor. The sound was a physical thing—a ripping, tearing thunder that made his teeth ache.
He didn’t fire the Cadillac’s guns. He waited.
Jack floored the accelerator. Grace’s engine screamed, a high, desperate wail. The pirates saw him coming. A dozen motorcycles broke off from the train, riders wielding axes and crossbows.
It was mounted on a tripod, its six barrels coiled like a sleeping serpent’s nest. Ammunition belts, heavy as python bodies, lay coiled in a steel crate beside it. Jack whistled. “You are a beautiful nightmare.”
Twenty-millimeter high-explosive incendiary rounds spat from the Cadillac at 3,000 rounds per minute. The first rounds sparked off the train’s armor. The second group dented it. The third punched through.
The “20 Gun” wasn’t a weapon. It was a legend.
“Your idiot,” he replied, and pointed Grace toward the coastal highlands, where the dinosaurs were smaller and the gas stations were rumored to still have a few drops left.
The vault door was a slab of steel marked with the faded logo: “U.S. ARMY ORDNANCE.” The lock was a mechanical puzzle, ancient and stubborn. Jack worked it for ten minutes, his knuckles bleeding, until a satisfying clunk echoed through the tunnel.
“You’re welcome,” Jack said, lighting a crooked cigarette.
He pulled her into the passenger seat, wrapped her in his jacket, and drove away before the shockwave of the train’s fuel tanks exploding turned the valley into an oven.
Deep in the biosphere tunnels beneath the ruins of old New York, a pre-Upheaval vault supposedly held a treasure: a pristine, functional M61 Vulcan—a 20mm rotary cannon, six barrels of pure, earth-shattering firepower. The man who held it could clear a valley of Runners, hold off a Rex, or carve a path straight through the territory of the feared Motorcycle Pirates.
Hannah stared at the smoking crater in the rearview mirror, then at the still-hot barrels of the 20 Gun sticking out the back window. “You welded my best welding torch to the floor.”
He found the land-train at high noon, crawling through Salt Flats Valley. Grusilda’s war rig was a monstrosity: a diesel locomotive engine welded to semi-truck trailers, bristling with harpoon guns and steel spikes. Chained to its prow, arms stretched wide like a crucified saint, was Hannah.
The first motorcycle pulled alongside. Jack jerked the wheel, grinding its rider against a rock wall. The second exploded as he let loose a single, deafening BRRRRRRT from the 20 Gun. The rotary cannon chewed the bike, the rider, and the dirt behind them into red vapor. The sound was a physical thing—a ripping, tearing thunder that made his teeth ache.
He didn’t fire the Cadillac’s guns. He waited.
Jack floored the accelerator. Grace’s engine screamed, a high, desperate wail. The pirates saw him coming. A dozen motorcycles broke off from the train, riders wielding axes and crossbows.
It was mounted on a tripod, its six barrels coiled like a sleeping serpent’s nest. Ammunition belts, heavy as python bodies, lay coiled in a steel crate beside it. Jack whistled. “You are a beautiful nightmare.”
Twenty-millimeter high-explosive incendiary rounds spat from the Cadillac at 3,000 rounds per minute. The first rounds sparked off the train’s armor. The second group dented it. The third punched through.
The “20 Gun” wasn’t a weapon. It was a legend.
“Your idiot,” he replied, and pointed Grace toward the coastal highlands, where the dinosaurs were smaller and the gas stations were rumored to still have a few drops left.
The vault door was a slab of steel marked with the faded logo: “U.S. ARMY ORDNANCE.” The lock was a mechanical puzzle, ancient and stubborn. Jack worked it for ten minutes, his knuckles bleeding, until a satisfying clunk echoed through the tunnel.
“You’re welcome,” Jack said, lighting a crooked cigarette.
