The truck had pretty good acceleration, but before she could get past 50 there were about six motorcycles and four tube-framed dune buggies around them. One of the dune buggies to the rear had a 50-caliber machinegun mounted on top.

The raiders didn't have the greatest fashion sense. Each sported an odd assortment of piercings and tattoos. Floyd didn't know you could put a safety pin in that part of your face. Whoever these guys were, they weren't the local Shriner's Club.

“Hey! It's a girl!” One of the bike riders called out. “Hey, girlie! Pull over! We'll give you a ride!” For some reason, he and his buddies found that remarkably funny and they all started laughing. He made some kind of gesture with his tongue that was probably intended to be sexual but it just made him look even stupider (if such a thing was possible). Mikki was not amused.

“Remember those defensive driving courses you said you took?” Floyd asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, the best defense is a good offense.”

“Got it.”

Mikki swerved quickly to the left and knocked over the nearest biker. He, in turn, knocked over the biker next to him. “That reminds me,” Floyd said, “I gotta teach you how to play dominoes sometime. Fun game.”

“So's this,” said Mikki. She swerved hard to the right but the bikers there were ready for her and dodged out of the way. Two more bikers started coming up on her left.

“Hey, Floyd. You know how they say to drive with both hands on the wheel?” Mikki asked, pushing the button to lower the driver's window.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I got a new driving rule. One hand on the wheel, one finger in the air!” She stuck out her left arm and flipped off the riders. They didn't appreciate the gesture and started shooting at the truck's tires with pistols.

Fortunately, Floyd had filled the tires with a rubbery goo, so they wouldn't go flat, no matter what he ran over.

“Damn, Floyd! When did this movie go from Dawn of the Dead to Mad Max?”

“Apparently, about two minutes ago.”

“Well, I got a new movie for these assholes. Armaggedon!”

Mikki pulled the pin from a grenade with her teeth and spit it out onto the floor of the cab. Looking in the rearview mirror, she lined up the truck, kissed the grenade, and dropped it out the window. “With love from Floyd and Mikki!” she shouted.

The first two motorcycles dodged it easily, but they weren't her target anyway. The buggy with the 50-cal ran right over it just as the grenade went off. It blew about three feet into the air when the gas tank exploded in a ball of flame. One of the motorcycle riders was so stunned, he snapped his head around so fast to look at it that he lost control of the bike. It wobbled a bit then crashed, flipping side over side until it skidded to a gruesome halt.

“Yeah!” Mikki screamed out the window. “Weebles wobble and they do fall down!”

She hit the gas and got it up to 70. Then she engaged the cruise control and put Floyd's hand on the wheel. “Keep 'er steady!” she shouted. Floyd wanted to ask her what the hell she was doing, but by now he knew better. He'd see soon enough.

Mikki zipped up her jacket and snapped the neck shut, quickly put on her helmet, and grabbed one of the Mini Uzis. Unbuckling her seat belt, she turned around and leaned out the window, firing at the nearest biker. His midsection blew apart in smoke and flame. Zeke wasn't kidding about these antipersonnel rounds. If there was a heaven, he must be lookin' down smilin' right now. That thought, along with the utter mayhem she was creating, made Mikki smile.

“You do know the movie Armageddon was about a meteor, dontcha Mikki?”

“Don't spoil the moment, Floyd!” She blew away the two closest bike riders on her side as they shot into the cab. She only used short bursts, but the bikers erupted in a cloud of flame and blood. The three remaining dune buggies turned tail and headed back.

“Oh, no you don't!” shouted Mikki. She jumped back into the cab, grabbed the wheel, hit the brake and almost managed to spin the truck completely around. She hit the gas and took off after them. “You're turn Floyd,” she said, passing him the Uzi. Floyd rolled down the window, lined up the helmet of the closest driver and fired. The buggy veered off to the right and jumped the guard rail. Must be pretty hard to steer without a head.

The others were scared to death now. They opened up the throttles and zigzagged around to avoid being hit. It didn't quite work. Soon another driver's head turned into a roman candle. Floyd was as greatly appreciative of Zeke's special ammunition as Mikki was.

Mikki skidded to a stop as the remaining two dune buggies made it back behind the barricade. Mikki opened the door, Stood up outside the cab and yelled, “That's right! Run you mothers!” A puff of smoke came from the watchtower and a bullet sent Mikki flying back into the cab.

“Sniper in the tower,” Floyd remarked.

“No shit, Sherlock! Really? I hadn't noticed!” Mikki answered as she checked herself for damage. “Ouch! Goddammit, Floyd! Why does everybody have to shoot me in the tits!”

“Well, they do make for a large target. Just be glad the kevlar in your jacket makes you bulletproof. Oh, crap, I just sneezed inside my helmet! Yuck!”

Floyd had his door open with his own sniper rifle nestled into the arch where the door joined the cab. He was hunkered down as much as he could, protected by the bulletproof windshield and the bulletproof door window. He was completely focused on the tower.

“There you are. Hello!” He squeezed the trigger carefully, sending the copper-jacketed bullet on its way. As he watched through the scope, he saw the sniper’s head explode in a mist of blood and gore. “And goodbye!”

“Oh, you have got to be shittin' me!” Mikki cried, peering through the binoculars.

Four more dune buggies emerged from the barricade. These, however, were better armored with steel plates welded to the frame. No open tube construction on these. Each driver had a passenger with a machine gun in the back. The oncoming Raiders took turns firing at Floyd and Mikki, but the bullets bounced off the truck.

“Goddammit! Stop shootin' at my truck!” Floyd screamed.

“Relax, Floyd. Truck's bulletproof. You said so yourself.”

“The windows are bulletproof. The truck ain't! I built it to protect against zombies, not a bunch of G.I. Joe rejects!”

“Then you better start shootin' back.” Mikki handed Floyd his shotgun, loaded with slugs, as well as a couple extra mags.

Looking through binoculars, Mikki said, “Shit, Floyd, we are way beyond Thunderdome, now.”

Floyd didn't need any help to see what she was talking about. It was some kind of big-ass snowplow with a huge armored nose. Additional armor plating had been welded onto the monstrosity, including over the windshield. Only two small slits about three inches high and three feet wide allowed the driver and passenger to see out. That made for an extremely tough shot. To make matters worse, it had no tires. It ran on metal tracks, so nothing they had on hand could disable it.

Floyd fired a couple of slugs at the dune buggies to make them keep their distance. They drove around in circles taking potshots at Floyd's truck without getting too close, being were more than content to let their big brother do all the work as the plow headed straight up the middle of the road.

A spray of bullets hit the front grill of Floyd's truck, ran across the windshield and blew off the outside rearview mirror on the passenger side. Floyd cursed up a blue streak as a burst of steam started blowing out from under his hood.