Zero City

by neetha Napew

  Beating the dust off his caked clothes, Trevor started to agree with the gate guards, when he heard a metallic creak. Turning fast, revolver steady at his hip, the sec man blinked a few moments to clear his sight. Nothing seemed unusual or misplaced. Then he could have sworn that his mail truck moved slightly. He walked over and yanked open the doors.

  Human corpses were piled haphazardly on the floorboards of the vehicle, bones and organs exposed, loose limbs and hands lying in the corners so badly had the winged muties clawed the bodies to pieces. Sprawled on top was an intact male corpse without an eye, and a redhead female dressed in military coveralls who didn’t appear mauled at all. Trevor studied the curve of her shapely ass for a moment before abruptly slamming the door.

  Climbing into the cab, he pumped and throttled the engine a few shots to get the big-block V-8 firing on the alcohol fuel. The engine finally caught, and he started to roll into the dark tunnel.

  “Damn, I got to get to the gaudy house fast,” he muttered to himself, pulling the gas mask from a bag on his belt and sliding in over his head. “Been too long without quim when the stiffs start looking good.”

  AS THE CORPSE-FILLED truck began to move, Krysty rolled off Ryan and both drew their blasters. Crawling over the dead, she looked out the tiny rearview window. The opening of the tunnel shrank in their wake. Dimly seen through the billowing dust clouds, the guards were searching the ground for their dropped cigs.

  Ryan tied his eye patch on and pulled a few strands of his black hair loose that got caught in the knot.

  “Hope Jak is okay,” Krysty said softly.

  “We would have heard them boasting if not,” Ryan noted in a whisper, retrieving his Steyr from underneath a headless torso. “Okay, we give this convoy a few minutes until we’re near the middle of the tunnel. These things are long, sometimes a quarter mile in length. Water damage should rough both ends, but the middle will be smooth. Once the tires start humming, we go.”

  “At least he’s not going very fast,” she stated. “Won’t hurt much jumping from this crawling can.”

  “Agreed.”

  The redhead jiggled the handle on the door. “Locked,” she reported. “No surprise. Probably don’t want folks robbing the dead of blasters and such.”

  “Ever hear of a baron who did?”

  “Only your family,” she whispered, trying to stand but the ceiling was too low. Krysty debated sitting or kneeling, and settled for crouching on her heels. The blood and the guts didn’t bother her much. It was the warmth of the fresh corpses, suggesting a terrible mockery of life. Under her breath, she uttered a short prayer to Gaia. During this, the bouncing of the rough road diminished and the tires began to softly hum under the truck.

  Patiently, Ryan gave her the moment, then asked, “Ready?”

  “Go ahead,” she said, covering her ears with her palms.

  Placing a hand against the roof as a brace, Ryan aimed the 9 mm SIG-Sauer at the back door of the vehicle, when the truck jounced through a deep pothole. The blaster coughed softly, blowing out the aft window in a loud crash of glass.

  “What the fuck was that?” demanded a voice from the other side of the front wall.

  The element of surprise gone, Ryan spun fast, estimating three feet off the floor and two feet from the left, then fired again twice more. The corpses and interior of the truck strobed from the flash of the shots. In response, a startled gasp, then wet burbling noises came from the front of the wag. Without a pause, Ryan put another round through the passenger side of the vehicle. The truck started to zigzag wildly, began to slow and abruptly stopped, throwing the companions and the corpses forward into a bloody pile.

  Forcibly extracting himself, Ryan kicked open the back door and jumped to the ground. Krysty joined him in a heartbeat.

  “Can’t chance hiding,” he decided. “We’re in a tunnel with zero cover and nowhere to run.”

  The redhead pulled a knife into view. “Then we chill the bastards.”

  Ryan grunted agreement. Racing around to the driver’s-side door, he yanked it open and hauled out the dead man behind the wheel. Climbing into the cab, he fumbled in the darkness for the keys, but they weren’t in the ignition anymore. When he got shot, the driver had to have yanked them loose.

  Ahead of them down the tunnel, the taillights of the flatbed truck flared brightly red as the brakes were applied.

  “He’s seen us,” Krysty warned, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “Working on it,” Ryan muttered, scrounging madly about on the floor. Something metallic came under his fingers and pain cut into his thumb. He cursed and brushed it aside. Bastard pulltop from a can! Then a jingling noise sounded as he touched something metallic, loose and on a ring.

  “Got them,” Ryan said, sitting upright.

  Fumbling a bit, he tried a key in the ignition, but it didn’t fit. Carefully, sliding that down the ring, he cupped it in his palm to keep it out of the way and tried the next. That key was close, but not quite the correct size. It went in, but not all the way. Probably the key for the back door. The next key was huge and would never fit in the ignition switch.

  In the darkness ahead of them, a soft beeping sounded as the brake lights on the truck winked out and the vehicle began backing their way.

  “They’re coming,” Krysty said, patting her pockets for matches or a lighter to help him see. She found a matchbox, but it proved to be empty.

  Closing his eye to concentrate, Ryan tried another- too small. The next he passed on, as the stubby key was round and the slot for the switch was long and thin. What the hell did this bastard have so many keys for?

  Blaster in hand, the woman opened her door and put one leg out. “Thirty yards,” she announced, holding the blaster in both hands and resting the barrel on the window frame, assuming a firing stance.

  Lots of keys remained on the ring, but they were out of time. “Last one,” he said. “Then we run for it.”

  Jabbing the worn key toward the slot, he was shocked when it smoothly slid into place. Stomping on the accelerator, Ryan turned the ignition and the warm engine roared into life. Snapping on the headlights, he angled the wag away from the wall and started to creep forward. Krysty closed her door, but kept the S&W .38 out the window in case of trouble.

  The truck ahead of them didn’t slow, so Ryan beeped the horn. The toot produced was pitifully weak, most likely that way even before the centuries robbed it of power, so Ryan pounded on the horn a few more times. Feeble as it was, the other driver had to have heard the musical squeaks because he stopped the backward progress of the flatbed, and as they came dangerously close, the other truck began to roll forward.

  “Thinks we stalled,” Ryan guessed, easing the tension in his arms and hands.

  “These old engines probably do it constantly,” Krysty said, placing the blaster in her lap for fast access.

  “Well, we were lucky with this truck,” Ryan observed, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. The bullet hole had forced out a spring that was digging into his ribs, annoying as hell. “Can’t chance that again with the flatbed. Must have three guys or more riding shotgun. And if they see us, we’re in for a fight.”

  The tunnel gently curved to the left. Ryan had always wondered why long tunnels did that until Mildred explained it to him. The angle was a break-slope, designed to ease the rush of water charging along the tunnel should there be a midspan break.

  “Only three,” Krysty said resolutely. “We can take them.”

  “Can’t chance it,” Ryan countered. “Getting that med kit is our top priority. If we get caught, Dean could be dead before we could escape.”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s tougher than a nail.”

  “Dean’s a survivor,” Ryan said, offering his highest compliment.

  “We have mebbe ten or fifteen minutes before we reach the end of this tunnel. We have to come up with a plan.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ryan told her, shifting gears as the curve gently straightened. “I’ll
have something by then. Mebbe we could- Fireblast!”

  Up ahead, faint orange daylight streamed into the tunnel, and tiny figures were walking around on the ground near what resembled a machine-gun nest and a concrete barricade.

  Chapter Twelve

  Standing guard on the roof of the federal building, Doc checked his windup pocket chron. The timepiece said noon, but the sky above beguiled the fact with streaming yellow clouds streaked with lambent red and blotchy with purple. Even the lizards in the streets seemed to know a bad storm was approaching, as they dug holes in the sand and collapsed the openings upon themselves.

  Careful not to pinch his fingers, J.B. lowered the sheet of Plexiglas into the skylight frame. The janitor’s closet had been a windfall of material, including replacement glass for the windows and skylight. Unfortunately, the silicon putty had long ago turned into a dried brick, but he had an answer for that problem.

  “How’s it look?” the Armorer asked, extracting a candle from the bag at his feet. Crushing a pellet of pyrotab so it burst into flame, he lit the wick before the chemical compound burned itself out.

  Standing nearby, Doc removed his gaze from the ville around them and studied the repair job. “Good,” he finally said, the Heckler & Koch G-12 resting in the crook of his arm.

  Rifles weren’t his forte, but as a rooftop sentry he needed something a lot quieter and with greater range than his hog-leg .44 LeMat. Dean’s caseless rifle fit the bill perfectly, even though this was the last reload. A hundred rounds and the blaster was dead.

  “Very good, in fact. That soap you smeared on the inside of the sheet makes it seem sandblasted just like the others.”

  Tilting the candle, J.B. carefully dribbled the melting wax along the edge of the glass, using a stick to push it into place. He just nodded, concentrating on his work. This window needed to resemble the others in the skylight so that nothing and nobody could tell this was where Dean had fallen through.

  “It will last for months if the weather holds.”

  “More than sufficient,” Doc agreed, as he fought back a yawn. “The flask is still half-full. Some more coffee?”

  “Hell, yes,” J.B. said, starting a second pass over the frame. It had been a long night moving their supplies over to this building, then erasing every trace of the work, using brooms to sweep away their tracks in the sand.

  There came the single crack of a blaster.

  J.B. dropped the candle and rotated on his heels, his Uzi out and ready. “Muties?” he demanded.

  “Skylight,” Doc remarked, shouldering the HK G-12.

  “Come again?” J.B. demanded, sliding the safety back on his weapon.

  “Disguising our location is a logical precaution, agreed? However, I decided to augment the strategy by offering any possible hunters an alternate locale for investigation.”

  “Ah, you shot out another skylight,” J.B. stated, then he glanced about, “Where?”

  Doc pointed. “There, a few blocks over. A most prudent expenditure of ammunition, I can assure you.”

  “I agree,” J.B. said with a smile. “But do you honestly think the muties might be smart enough to recall that Dean fell through a skylight, and will check out the other instead?”

  “Ryan often remarked that the Trader stated when you underestimate the enemy, what you really do is overestimate yourself.”

  “Sure sounds like the Trader.” J.B. laughed, then paused and stared hard at the streets below. A dust cloud was coming their way. “Incoming.”

  The two men moved to the corner of the roof and studied the approaching vehicle.

  “The Hummer, I see,” Doc said, frowning. “And, pray tell, who is that riding with our young Mr. Lauren?”

  J.B. scowled. “Beats me. Let’s go and find out.”

  “STOP HERE,” Wu-Lang snapped, his blaster pressed hard into Jak’s side. The Cajun didn’t reply, but brought the Hummer to a stop a few stores down the street from the pawnshop.

  “Hello!” a voice called out from the roof.

  Trying to hide the blaster, Wu-Lang craned his neck, glancing around. Nobody was visible.

  “Hello down there,” the voice said again. A man wearing glasses and a hat appeared over the edge of a roof, waving in greeting. “Jak, I see you have company!”

  “Answer him,” Wu-Lang ordered, putting on a friendly smile.

  “So can kill friend?” Jak asked, hands motionless on the steering wheel. “Fuck you twice.”

  Viciously, Wu-Lang dug the barrel of his S&W .357 deeper into the teenager’s ribs. He expected a whimper of pain, but got only a soft grunt.

  “Just do as I tell ya, Snowball, and both you and your buddy will live to see another day. All I want is more fuel and some food so I leave this stinking ville,” he snapped. “Get me the stuff and I’m gone.”

  “We live?”

  “Of course. You’re still breathing, ain’t you?”

  Jak glared at the man out of the corner of an eye. “Need me get fuel.”

  “Hey, something wrong?” the man from the roof called out.

  “Wave and tell him to come on down,” Wu-Lang demanded, twisting the barrel of the gun. Jak grunted again, a reddish stain on his vest slowly spreading out from the spot.

  Beaming happily, Wu-Lang clicked back the hammer. “Do it or die. I have nothing to lose.”

  “No problems!” Jak called out, snapping off a friendly salute. “Come down, Bruce. Want meet old buddy from bayou!”

  “The bayou, eh?” J.B. smiled, doffing his hat and waving it twice. “Great! Is this your cousin Charlie?”

  “Brian.”

  The man cupped an ear. “Eh? What was that?”

  “Brian. His name is Brian.”

  The conversation was taking an odd turn, and Wu-Lang was starting to get suspicious. He debated chilling the albino and driving off immediately when a bizarre noise sounded, sort of like a zipper unfastening, only much faster and louder.

  Instantly, the windshield of the Hummer shattered into a million pieces and white-hot pain stabbed Wu-Lang as a flurry of 4.7 nun rounds ripped into his chest. Jak dived from the Hummer just as the coldheart fired his blaster, blowing a hole in the canvas door. Another flurry hit, and Wu-Lang jerked about madly, his chest spouting crimson like a punctured water balloon. The dying man worked his mouth a few times, trying to speak, blood flowing freely over his lips, and he slumped over and hit his head on the dashboard.

  Sporting the HK G-12, Doc stepped from the doorway of the federal building. “How are you doing, Jak?” Doc called out, staying in the cover of the partially open doorway.

  “Name’s Alvin!” the Cajun answered, dusting himself off. Doc relaxed and waved at the roof. J.B. returned the gesture and disappeared from view. By the time he reached the street, Jak and Doc were already hauling the corpse into the back of the Hummer.

  “Good idea hiding the body,” J.B. said. “The smell of blood will attract animals for miles.”

  As the hijacker slumped limply into the cargo area, Doc prodded the corpse with his ebony cane. “And pray tell, who was our uninvited visitor?”

  “Coldheart who wanted leave ruins,” Jak said, holding his side and wincing.

  Gathering the dropped blaster from where it fell, Doc inspected the dead man’s blaster. “Excellent piece, fine condition.” He cracked the cylinder and checked the ammo. The bullets were reloads, but very well done. “Any more in his pockets?”

  Expertly, Jak rifled the dead man’s clothing. “Nope. Just spoon, can opener, cig lighter.”

  “I’ll take the lighter,” J.B. said, and Jak tossed it over.

  “Four rounds is it, then,” Doc said, and, walking to the front of the Hummer, slid the blaster into the map compartment. “Never hurts to have a spare.”

  “How did he get the drop on you?” J.B. asked curiously, tucking the butane lighter into his munitions bag.

  “Jumped on hood from overpass,” Jak said, making a face. He had been caught unawares like a stupe, and the
Cajun felt embarrassed. “Shoved blaster my face. No choice but obey.”

  J.B. could read the teenager’s expression. “I would have done the same myself. What did he want from us anyway, food or blasters?”

  “Fuel. Wanted leave bad. Kept looking sky.”

  “Watching for our winged muties, perhaps?” Doc inquired.

  “Yep. Called them demons.”

  “Good name,” J.B. admitted, starting to light his cigar stub, then forcing his hand away. “They’re the nastiest bastards I’ve encountered since Larry Zapp.”

  “Well, he does not need to fear their arrival anymore,” Doc said, raking the street with his hand and tossing some sand on the man. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Where shall we dispose of the body?”

  “River,” Jak suggested practically. “Water carry to ocean.”

  “Exemplary, my young friend. Let us be off.”

  “Wait, I have a better notion,” J.B. countered, chewing the stub from one side of his mouth to the other. “Let’s drop him off in a vacant lot a few blocks from here with a nice block of C-4 under his ass. Might get a few muties or wolves that way.”

  “Sounds good,” Jak agreed, then he winced as sweat touched the cut in his side.

  “Hey, are you hurt?” J.B. asked in concern.

  “Just scratch,” Jak said dismissively, showing the minor wound. “But how Dean?”

  “The same.”

  “Oh.”

  “By the way,” Doc asked, “where are Ryan and Krysty? Any news on the whereabouts of the medical kit?”

  Quickly, Jak told them what happened.

  “So they tracked him inside the ville,” J.B. said, crossing his arms. “Damn, I don’t like the fact that we have no way of contacting them, or even keeping track of their progress.”

  “Perhaps there is a way,” Doc said unexpectedly, studying the cloudy sky. It was difficult to gauge the hour with the heavy blanket of storm clouds blocking the sun. His pocket chron was working fine, but since they didn’t know where they were, it could be hours fast or slow in regard to the local time. They didn’t even know if this was still America.