149
For a mile beyond the junction, the highway passes through a corridor of petrified trees, the pitiful remains of a fertile city park that thrived before the holocaust. Then it crests a ridge of high ground that overlooks the sickly, tainted waters of Lake Worth. The bridge ahead is blocked by a manned barricade, and you slow to a halt, signalling to the others to pull off the road to avoid being seen.
Cutter is the first to join you, his eagle eyes fixed on the barricade as silently he assesses its strength. Uncle Jonas and Hammer Harlan are the next to arrive and they are quick to ask Cutter for his opinion. ‘Ain’t nothing fancy down there,’ he says, almost casually. ‘They got a few cars strung out in a line, that’s all. I figure if we was to hit ’em hard enough, you can bet yer boots we’d bust through their centre like a bull through a wicker fence.’
‘We can’t risk damaging a vehicle,’ says Hammer, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘If we smash a rad or rip a tyre, we can kiss goodbye to our hopes o’ seein’ Big Spring.’
‘True enough,’ replies Cutter, stroking his stubbly chin. ‘But I’ve got an idea that’ll give us a better-than-evens chance o’ cuttin’ through without a scratch.’
