22.
 That night, Anna stayed away. Moira again made passionate love to Taxi, exhausting her. When Moira had fallen asleep, Taxi lay awake a while, absently stroking Moira’s hair and thinking. Maybe she would not take a few guns away from the Toons. From all appearances, they were this community’s main line of defense, other than the perimeter with its metal crabs or whatever hidden in the sand. She’d had thoughts of blasting her way out through the fence, but that would probably weaken the defenses. It was a miracle these people had survived as long as they had. Maybe it was the poisoned freeway above — folks just sped on past without stopping to look. Best leave it that way, Taxi thought as she fell asleep. It might be nice to come back here and visit some day.
In the morning, Jen and Moira produced the wagon. Taxi laughed a little — it was a cross between a child’s toy and a working cart, a simple affair, about a meter long, narrow, with side boards tilting away. There was a wooden handle on a vertical pivot, and that was what one used to pull the wagon. Taxi borrowed a shovel, a long sturdy rope, and a thick ball of fine twine.
The three of them leveraged the bottle out of the engine compartment, where it had fallen. They worked it over the fender and onto the ground, and from there onto the wagon. There, Taxi tied the shiny object down. It was roughly the shape, and about four times the size, of a standard hot water bottle Taxi sometimes took to bed when she had her period; but it was shiny, as if made of mirrors.
“Hope the Toons don’t see us,” Moira said as they three pulled to get the wagon rolling.
“What would they do to us?” Taxi asked.
“Hold us for questioning. Maybe kill you,” Jen said.
The handle kept coming off the wagon. The steel-hooped wooden wheels rode hard on the rutted path, bouncing painfully over each sharp stone. The women soon had blisters on their hands. The wind blew in Taxi’s ears, bringing smells of hot sand and buried swamp and nearby ocean.
As they rounded a corner, Jen screamed.
The Toons came from out of nowhere, dour-faced Lincolns, charging in their ancient uniforms.
Taxi rather hoped she had it right: that they would only attack her, not any of the precious genetic livestock they were kept oiled to protect.
Six or eight Toons came charging across the sparsely grassy sand dunes about halfway to the fence she needed to cross.
Taxi crouched low. “Run!” she yelled at Moira.
Taxi crawled sidways into a bushy area to draw fire away from the precious helium drive bottle. She hid behind some boulders that would deflect their bullets — Not a moment too soon; the modern assault rifles began making popping sounds. The air around Taxi’s ears began to whine. Nicked twigs flew about, cutting her skin.
When the first Toon loomed over her, she had her gun out. “No!” she yelled. “I don’t want to hurt you. You have to protect the people here.”
The Toon’s eyes didn’t register any emotion or recognition. Its eyes were sensors, shaped like brass marbles, rolling this way and that inside plastic eyelids. Its right arm appeared to be useless, probably from age and neglect. This gave Taxi a second’s jump on him. She shot him directly in the mouth, and he flew straight backward. She heard the screech of metallic parts as he hit. His assault rifle had popped from his grasp and had fallen before Taxi. She checked: six rounds.
She raised her arm and fired a single shot from her .45. “Listen, you goons. I don’t want to hurt you.”
At that moment, a bullet flew past and nicked her ear. “Ouch!” She doubled over, grasping her ear with both hands. Blood trickled between her fingers.
Although one ear was full of blood, she heard them coming, with her other ear. She heard the thud of their weight on the sand, the creak of their leather, the squeaking and squealing of their hinged joints.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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