OCR is Not the Only Font

Payload

Hertz Starmangler wrestled his nukebike into eighth gear, studded tyres gouging trenches in the waste. Squeezing the throttle as far as it would go, he felt the bulktanium mega-alloy buckle beneath his grip. The tortured engine coughed a searing haze of irradiated gas that streamed out behind the bike, but the screamers were undeterred. Hordes of them scuttled or slithered behind, clutching at the bike’s tattered scraps of camouflage netting, the tow-hooks on the back, anything that trailed within their grasp. Hertz had been crazy, they said, to cut through the Slaughterzone, and perhaps they were right: but he had a job to do. He glanced down at the steel case taped to the bike frame, its glowing display staring back at him. Four minutes. No time for caution.

Suddenly, there was a scraping of claws on the bike’s armour plating. Hertz had slackened his grip on the throttle for only an instant, but the freaks had made use of it. In the time it took him to glance behind, one of them lurched its way up and over the engine shielding. Screeching, it drew back its arm for a lethal blow. With his left hand, Hertz gave a brief tug on the handlebar: at this speed, even this slight wobble was sufficient to throw the creature from its perch and it toppled down beneath the wheels. With his right, he retrieved his neutron blaster from its holster. A second screamer was clambering its way along the side of the vehicle. He held the trigger down for just a second, giving the weapon a chance to prime. By the time he leant out, lining up the shot, the end of the wide barrel was beginning to melt. The muzzle flash left its mark on the nukebike’s shielding, the bleached patch bright against the wasteland grime that coated the rest of the vehicle. The screamer that had perched there a moment ago was vaporised immediately, and even those that had been caught out beyond the weapon’s lethal range hung back a bit, hissing. Dumb and mindless though they were, force was a language that they understood.

The steel fortress was just visible on the horizon, an invincible pin in a map of destruction. Hertz knew that behind him the screamers would be gaining ground. He could not give them that chance. With some difficulty, he flipped the plastic cover up against the oncoming wind. Then, he pressed the button. Heat prickled across his back as engine activity surged, leaving the screamers dawdling in its exhaust’s deadly haze. They were out of the running: the race was now between himself and the engine. The engine, and the numbers on the case. Fifty seconds.

A hundred metres from the fortress, the heat became unbearable, but Hertz kept riding. At forty, however, the back tyre turned molten. The concrete shielding cracked, scattering chunks violently out from the back of the bike. Ripping the steel case from its frame—the duct tape already half melted—he ran towards the gate, boots heavy in the dust. The numbers read twenty-six seconds. Behind him, the screamers were gaining again. Though most had slowed when they reached the bike, drawn to the hot scent of flesh, one of them was almost upon him. He turned, neutron blaster charging even before it was out of the holster, but he did not fire. As he span, he caught sight of the bike, its engine a boiling furnace. The screamer leapt, but he fell, pressing his face into the dirt. As he did so, the bike exploded, the engine obliterating anything in its line of sight. Smouldering chunks of screamer peppered the ground around him.

Hertz was stunned, but only for a moment. The sight of the numbers on the case brought him to his senses.

Nine seconds.

Eight.

Seven.

He was on his feet and sprinting, covering the last few metres to the door.

Six.

He slammed his fist against the scorched button on the wall. The door opened.

“Hello Mrs. Spleenkill,” he said, cheerily. “Here’s your pie: delivered in thirty minutes or it’s free.”

He tapped a finger on the display.

Two.

One.

“Oh, lovely!” the old lady smiled. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? The man on the radio said there would be a lot of space mutants today.”

“Yes,” said Hertz. “It’s a bit nasty out, but I’m afraid I can’t stop. I’ve got Mr. Scumknuckle’s antiques magazine still to deliver, you see.” He looked over at the smouldering crater outside. “And I’ll have to do this one on foot.”