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Hannah stared at the smoking crater in the rearview mirror, then at the still-hot barrels of the 20 Gun sticking out the back window. “You welded my best welding torch to the floor.”
Now it was just him and the train.
The first motorcycle pulled alongside. Jack jerked the wheel, grinding its rider against a rock wall. The second exploded as he let loose a single, deafening BRRRRRRT from the 20 Gun. The rotary cannon chewed the bike, the rider, and the dirt behind them into red vapor. The sound was a physical thing—a ripping, tearing thunder that made his teeth ache.
Inside, under a single, dust-caked skylight, stood the 20 Gun.
He didn’t fire the Cadillac’s guns. He waited.
The vault door was a slab of steel marked with the faded logo: “U.S. ARMY ORDNANCE.” The lock was a mechanical puzzle, ancient and stubborn. Jack worked it for ten minutes, his knuckles bleeding, until a satisfying clunk echoed through the tunnel.
It was the year 2613, a century after the Great Upheaval shattered the old world. Terranova, a jagged scar of a continent, was a place where gasoline was more precious than blood and the thunder of a Tyrannosaur’s footfall was the only alarm clock. In this broken world, a man named Jack Tenrec was a ghost in a leather jacket, his only friend a battered Cadillac Coupe de Ville.
He pulled her into the passenger seat, wrapped her in his jacket, and drove away before the shockwave of the train’s fuel tanks exploding turned the valley into an oven.
The rest of the pirates panicked. They swerved, crashed, or simply froze as Jack closed the distance.
Jack floored the accelerator. Grace’s engine screamed, a high, desperate wail. The pirates saw him coming. A dozen motorcycles broke off from the train, riders wielding axes and crossbows.
Juvenile Raptors. Three of them. Their bioluminescent stripes flickered in the dark like broken neon signs.
The 20 Gun spoke.
Behind them, the sun set over a world of reptiles and ruins. Ahead, the Cadillac’s headlights cut two clean paths through the dark. And between the seats, the 20 Gun’s spent shell casings rolled gently with every bump, still warm to the touch.
Hannah stared at the smoking crater in the rearview mirror, then at the still-hot barrels of the 20 Gun sticking out the back window. “You welded my best welding torch to the floor.”
Now it was just him and the train.
The first motorcycle pulled alongside. Jack jerked the wheel, grinding its rider against a rock wall. The second exploded as he let loose a single, deafening BRRRRRRT from the 20 Gun. The rotary cannon chewed the bike, the rider, and the dirt behind them into red vapor. The sound was a physical thing—a ripping, tearing thunder that made his teeth ache.
Inside, under a single, dust-caked skylight, stood the 20 Gun.
He didn’t fire the Cadillac’s guns. He waited.
The vault door was a slab of steel marked with the faded logo: “U.S. ARMY ORDNANCE.” The lock was a mechanical puzzle, ancient and stubborn. Jack worked it for ten minutes, his knuckles bleeding, until a satisfying clunk echoed through the tunnel.
It was the year 2613, a century after the Great Upheaval shattered the old world. Terranova, a jagged scar of a continent, was a place where gasoline was more precious than blood and the thunder of a Tyrannosaur’s footfall was the only alarm clock. In this broken world, a man named Jack Tenrec was a ghost in a leather jacket, his only friend a battered Cadillac Coupe de Ville.
He pulled her into the passenger seat, wrapped her in his jacket, and drove away before the shockwave of the train’s fuel tanks exploding turned the valley into an oven.
The rest of the pirates panicked. They swerved, crashed, or simply froze as Jack closed the distance.
Jack floored the accelerator. Grace’s engine screamed, a high, desperate wail. The pirates saw him coming. A dozen motorcycles broke off from the train, riders wielding axes and crossbows.
Juvenile Raptors. Three of them. Their bioluminescent stripes flickered in the dark like broken neon signs.
The 20 Gun spoke.
Behind them, the sun set over a world of reptiles and ruins. Ahead, the Cadillac’s headlights cut two clean paths through the dark. And between the seats, the 20 Gun’s spent shell casings rolled gently with every bump, still warm to the touch.