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As the groups parted, Lautenberg offered Valentine a wink, and slipped something into Guadalco's hand as they shook.
And with that, the convoy got moving again. The scout cycles blatted out first, then the combat craft; the big tow trucks, capable of pulling a disabled truck or moving an unexpected obstacle with their thick cable winches; Lautenberg's Winnebago office on wheels; the "money trucks" with the tanker and "chuck wagon" RV guarded by a truck full of dummy soldiers; a few "gypsy" vans traveling with the convoy for protection like pilot fish hovering close to a shark; more cargo trucks; then the rear guard: the "remount" truck and more cycles.
"The Spikes must really have it in for that Valentine fella", the heavyset commander of the overwatch car said. By "Spikes" he meant the Kurians; their towers did look a little like spikes, glimpsed from a distance.
He had thoughtful eyes and a patchy beard. The rest of the car, Zuniga at the wheel and Swell at the ring gun, called their commander "Salsa". He spread hot sauce from an endless supply of tiny red bottles he kept in a machine-gun belt case on everything he ate, save fruit.
"Nice of the road chief to stand up for me. I was in a cell once before. Thought I'd cashed out".
"What were you in for?"
"Fighting and public drunkenness".
"That where you got your face rearranged?" Zuniga asked.
"Yes", Valentine said, which was almost true.
"What you guys talking about?" Swell called down from the ring gun. Swell loved riding in the wind, leaning on the canvas-covered poker, but always wanted details of in-cab conversations shouted up to him.
"We're talkin' about how your mother undercuts all the other whores", Salsa shouted up. Then to the others: "I swear to God, I should make him drive so he doesn't miss nuthin'".
"Except he bitches about how he feels cooped up in here", Zuniga said, leaning over to pass gas at a volume that rivaled that of the motorcycle sixty meters ahead.
"Phew, Max, I think this kid could drop a Hood with that", Salsa said.
"What's that?" Swell shouted.
Valentine winked at Salsa as he tied Swell's shoelaces together.
And with that, David Valentine passed out of Oklahoma.
* * *
Brief thunderstorms drenched the convoy.
"If you make this a habit, you'll learn that this is the best time of year Southwest", Salsa said.
Valentine had to agree. The forests, whose trees felt spaced out and airy compared with the thickets of the Ozarks, were cool and breezy and the dry grasses of the range country were bright with flowers, yellows and pinks and blues that attracted butterflies. Sadly, many of the latter ended up in gooey, colorful pieces on the windshield and grille of the 4x4.
Valentine, with little to do except watch the terrain roll under their wheels, enjoyed the trip. Except for train travel, this was the fastest he'd ever eaten miles.
There were stops, of course, for meals and refueling, and long detours around Kurian Zones or demolished bridges and culverts. He trotted around the vehicles, exercising his unused legs, marveling at the distance they'd come in a few short days.
At the overnights the convoy pulled off into lonely road stops, throwing a wide circle around Albuquerque, where Kurians who were at odds with the rest of the Aztlan Confederation were famous for letting strangers enter, but not leave. The road chief avoided towns as they crossed New Mexico. Towns brought local police to the vehicles like thirsty ticks looking for blood. New Universal Church missions and monastis provided safety of another sort, but the churchmen in their tube-steel clerical collars (grades of metal differentiated just what the ascetics had given up to more fully devote themselves to the betterment of mankind) were a more hygienic and annoying version of the lawmen. At least the lawmen didn't subject one to lectures about reproductive responsibilities as they took their graft.
"A tree must be rooted to grow strong in safety!" one wild-haired monk intoned as the maintenance teams replaced lost tires in the Cibola foothills. He climbed a light pole to be better heard. His monastery had a patchwork look to it; this station was probably an exile for the head cases of the church. "Wandering seed is lost in the wind".
"Or lost in the joy girls in Los Angeles", a truck driver muttered to Valentine. He spit a mouthful of tobacco in the direction of the Easter Island - like Reaper-face set looking down on the monastery's wash well. "Ever hear about the Honeypot, pickup?" the driver asked.
"We have to get there first", Salsa said, interrupting. "Scouts are reporting some burned rigs in Holloweye Valley".
"We're too big for the Jaguars to try".
"I hope they know it as well as you", Salsa said. He turned and Valentine followed.
"Jaguars?"
"They wear bits of fur", Salsa said. "The big medicine guys wear spots. A successful warrior gets mountain lion skin, or wolf. The low-lifes have to make do with coyote. They're half-wild, worship those Reaper monoliths you see in this part of the country. They ain't after our gear or cargo, just our giblets. They think if they take lives, drink blood, they become as strong as the Reapers. Or turn into them".
