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He started the engine and pulled out after the Pooter. The rest of the Wayside occupants were fleeing to various compass points.
The Transporter was built like a tank. Nothing short of a cannon could stop it. True Georgia Control craftsmanship, superb in its simplicity. Solid tires behind automatic blinds. Self-sealing fuel tank. Explosive-channeling armored plate.
He drove as though demons had occupied the Pooter and he was an avenging angel. His charges pounded on the wall between the driver's cabin and their compartment. They were probably going crazy from the blood smell.
Still daylight. The Kurians had a hard time keeping connections with their avatars in daylight.
He couldn't wait to turn them loose on this pair. Regular Bonnie and Clyde.
"Shut up back there!" he yelled.
No radio, so the speaker system was voice only.
They didn't shut up back there. The banging increased.
"I'm saving our lives. It's still daylight."
Macon heard rivets pop. What the hell were they doing back there? Metal protested.
"For Kur's sake!" he shouted at the dimpled partition.
At last the banging slackened. Maybe they finally figured out he was doing the driving and the communicator was dead.
The Pooter headed north into wilderness, pushing through brush like a rampaging bull, suddenly lifted its tail. A great fallen tree filled the road, with thick woods to either side. The Pooter might still be able to push through, but only at a pace a jogging man could maintain.
Macon slammed on the brakes as well, hard enough so he heard a thump in back. Well, the Reapers wouldn't mind a few bumps. Especially not after he turned them loose on Bonnie and Clod.
The pair rolled out of the transport. He saw heads bob briefly as they made their way to cover at the front.
Macon felt very alone, now. In his first anger, he'd pursued without thinking about what would happen if he caught up to them. The sweat running down his back had gone cold and his mouth dry.
He rolled down the window, heard nothing but the breeze rustling through leafy spring growth and the popping of hot metal from his engine.
He found himself staring at the back of the transport. It took a moment for him to see what he was already looking at.
Someone had looped a length of no-shit tow-chain around the handles, crisscrossing it several times. Those doors wouldn't open from the inside without being torn off, and some puckering at the hinges on one side showed that the Reapers inside had been trying to do just that.
Yes, the Control really knew how to build them. The air vent to the rear chamber was atop the vehicle, a little mushroomlike projection with a grid to keep out hand grenades. Even an expert shot with a good angle couldn't use the vent to shoot into the rear.
But the grid was stuffed with rags.
Macon swooned for a moment, realizing the implications. He dropped to his hands and knees and looked under the Transporter.
Someone had stuck a siphon hose in the Transporter's exhaust and fed it into the air vent beneath the compartment. With the top corked, the deadly gasses had nothing to do but concentrate.
The implications came-hard and fast. The sweat on his brow made itself felt at the same time-cold and greasy.
Reapers used oxygen like everyone else. Carbon monoxide would build up and kill them. Easier than bullets.
Especially with some fool in the driver's seat redlining the engine.
Just as well he couldn't see the mess inside. Three Reapers, paler than they'd ever been. He could imagine the blue lines in their faces, more distinct than ever. He wondered what those yellow, slit-pupil eyes looked like in death.
Macon understood how it had happened, but would the Green Prince? A new man on the team, a red-ribboned, gift-wrapped, perfumed fuckup like this, and the loss of three qualified lives to a pair of junkyard guerillas.
He'd be lucky to get a job processing corpses for what was left of the Green Prince's Reapers.
For a moment, Macon considered putting the barrel of the gun under his chin and pulling the trigger.
