Blood Harvest (v5)

by James Axler

  The constable pointed to a table and a pair of chairs. Doc ignored them and went straight to the back office. Doc flung the door open and took command of the constable’s desk. Ryan stood behind like a tombstone. The constable and his posse shifted from foot to foot beneath Ryan’s unrelenting gaze. Doc consulted his chron and rolled his eyes.

  Ryan’s head turned at the sound of a wag outside.

  The constable and his men were visibly relieved. The station door swung open and two tall men wearing the universal island attire of black hats, caped coats and dark glasses entered, openly carrying long, predark blasters. Their plastic furniture had long ago been replaced with local wood stocks and grips and the original matte-black finish replaced with gray phosphate. J.B. probably could have identified them instantly. Ryan noted the hilts of swords protruding from out of their coats. Baron Barat followed. He was of medium height and wore the dark island garb; however, his was of finer cut and well tailored to his frame. The baron walked up to Jorge-Teo and their faces disappeared as they tilted their broad hats together. They consulted together in whispers for a few moments, and then the baron strode into the office and sat in front of Doc. He removed his gloves and handed them to one of his sec men. His skin was chalk-white and the nails on his fingers purplish. His long black hair had streaks of silver and fell loose to his shoulders. He removed his dark glasses and Ryan wasn’t surprised to see the man from the portrait in the smaller island church gazing upon him with cool curiosity.

  He turned his attention to Doc and gave him a cold, sharklike smile. His teeth were as gleaming white as Doc’s, but the baron’s purple gums had receded to make them appear entirely too long. It was the smile of a skull. “Baron…Tanner, is it?”

  Ryan spoke low and threatening. “Baron Theophilus Algernon Tanner, Baron of Strafford and Baron of Maine.”

  “Americans,” the baron said. The skeleton smile stayed painted on Barat’s face. The black eyes remained cold. His English was heavily accented but predark educated and formal. “Forgive me, Baron Tanner, but I have spoken with my constable, and I do not remember making your acquaintance.”

  “Your constable exaggerates. I did not claim to have had the honor of your acquaintance, dear Baron. I merely informed your constable that I was aware of you.”

  “Aware of me?”

  “Aware of your island,” Doc corrected.

  Ryan eyed the disposition of the sec men again and readied himself to start blasting. Doc sounded like he was about to drop the ball. Doc waved an impatient hand at Ryan and handed off. Ryan gave Baron Barat a withering look. “We’ve recced it.”

  The baron’s face froze.

  Ryan went with gut instinct. “It’s not hard to move among you. Particularly during the day.”

  The baron flinched and Ryan knew he had given him a gut shot where it hurt. Barat raised a hand to Jorge-Teo and spoke a few words in Portuguese. The constable left and the baron returned to Doc. “Forgive me, Baron. I have neglected my duties as host.” Jorge-Teo came in with a tray bearing a carafe of wine, cheese and smoked fish. The constable poured wine. Doc nodded at Ryan, who assumed the role of royal food taster and picked up the goblet.

  Baron Barat sighed and took up his own cup. He toasted vaguely toward Ryan and drained the goblet. He set the empty glass down, smacked his lips with relish and smiled condescendingly. Ryan took a swig from the goblet. The wine was heavier and sweeter than the communion wine on the sister island. Ryan poured it back and set the goblet down in front of Doc. The constable refilled the glass.

  Doc ignored it. “Baron, let me be blunt. My ship, the Vermont, went down in the other night’s storm.”

  The baron kept his poker face, but Ryan could almost hear him considering his own lost boat and calculating.

  “I believe my escort ships—”

  The baron blinked. “Your escort ships?”

  “Yes, my Vermont was a cargo ship and was heavily laden. The Maine and Hampshire are warships and faster. Last I saw of them from the Vermont, they were running ahead of the storm. We signaled them with lanterns before we went down. They will of course return in a few days’ time.”

  Ryan sensed Baron Barat’s discomfiture. Doc was playing his hand well. Now if he could just—Ryan’s stomach reared within him like a striking cobra. He tried to bring up his blaster to bear but his stomach ejected its contents so violently it almost tore the lining of his throat. Ryan fell to his hands and knees as sickness that made a mat-trans jump feel like an after-dinner belch racked him. “Doc! I—”

  Ryan went fetal as his bowels spasmed.

  Doc’s hand froze on the grips of his blaster as the baron’s sec men leveled their weapons. One was pointed at Doc. The other at aimed at Ryan’s retching form on the floor. Jorge-Teo relieved Doc of his LeMat, then knelt and relieved Ryan of his weapons. Doc struggled to maintain an imperious mien. “You disappoint me, Baron.”

  The baron ignored Doc and poured himself another glass of wine. He swirled it in his glass and admired its color before sipping it. He peered down at Ryan in mock sympathy. “Sadly, one’s first few experiences with our native lotus are somewhat…purgative. For one who imbibes it for the first time, I must admit he was given a very powerful dose. I fear his dreams shall not be pleasant.”

  “Baron Barat, I must protest this—”

  Barat turned to the constable. “It has been three days since we lost Roque.” He held up his glass. “I feel the draft upon me, and must sleep until the effects have passed. You know what must be done.”

  “Yes, Baron.” Jorge-Teo grinned unpleasantly at Ryan and Doc. “And what of these two?”

  “Put the sec man in a cell. He will be of use to no one for at least a day.”

  They both looked at Doc. “And the baron?” the constable asked.

  “Yes, the baron.” Barat gave Doc a very hard and measuring look. “Make him comfortable.” The skull-face smile returned once more. “I will speak with this man again after I have slept. Bring him to the manor come sundown.”

  NIGHT HAD NEARLY fallen. Mildred stood and peered out into the drizzling rain and fog. They had spent the afternoon exploring the tiny island and found damn little. She shivered in the cold ocean breeze and stepped back inside the shattered blockhouse. Mildred took out Doc’s note and read it again for lack of anything better to do. On one side was a picture of what looked to her like some kind of penguin. On the back Doc’s spidery longhand read:

  Dear friends,

  If you are reading this missive then you have successfully journeyed through the mat-trans. A boat approaches, time constrains me to brevity. In summary:

  -being picked up by fishing boat

  -believe we are in an island chain upon the Atlantic

  -disposition of natives unknown

  -advise caution

  -circumstances of corpse most curious (Mildred, please take note of marks on deceased’s inner arms.)

  -presume us to be upon the big island.

  I remain,

  Your faithful servant in all things,

  “Doc”

  Mildred turned the note over and looked at the date scratched beneath the bird sketch. “Doc wrote this three days ago.”

  Jak nodded. “Not been back.”

  Mildred shivered again. “Make a fire.”

  Jak frowned out at the rain. “Driftwood’s wet.” He dug into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handful of hexamine fuel tabs and bounced them once meaningfully in his hand. Each cube had a burn time of about fifteen minutes. “Two hours.”

  “I’m cold.”

  Jak nodded and took out flint and steel. He wrapped a fuel cube in a scrap of char cloth from his backpack. Sparks shot as he scraped the steel and magnesium rods together. It only took him two strikes and Mildred sighed as the tiny fire came to life. She warmed her hands over it and gave Jak her most winning smile across the fire. “You’re the man, Jak.”

  Jak nodded at the wisdom of the statement.

  “I’m hu
ngry.”

  Jak sighed and stuck out his hand. “Note.” Jak studied the words for a moment and handed it back. He drew one of his throwing knives as he rose and headed for the door. “Be back.”

  Mildred gave Jak a suspicious look. “You’re not going to hunt down Doc’s penguin, are you?”

  “Puffin.”

  “What?”

  Jak held up the sketch. “Puffin.”

  “How the hell do you know what a puffin is? Tell me you aren’t going out there to kill Doc’s puffin.”

  Jak gave one of his rare smiles. “Our puffin.”

  Mildred’s stomach betrayed her and growled in agreement. A part of her mind was already hoping it tasted like chicken. “Well, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  Jak blinked. Half the time he couldn’t fathom her predark gibberish. He turned and stepped into the night with his blade glittering between his fingers.

  “Might as well be talking to myself.” Mildred sighed. She turned her attention to the body and began talking to herself out of habit as she went into medical doctor mode. “Deceased is a Caucasian female, mid to late teens. Body shows obvious signs of acute starvation. Final cause of death most likely dehydration once victim became nonambulatory.” Mildred shook her head sadly as she examined the body. “Girl, you went the hard way.” She peered at the puncture marks Doc had noted. The holes on her inner arms were large and the bruising was bad. Just looking at them told her the IV needle had to have been fourteen gauge or bigger. It looked like work from Doc’s time rather than hers, and it was pretty clear to her that someone had been drawing blood rather than administering fluids.

  Jak called out of the darkness so he wouldn’t get shot by mistake. “Back!”

  “That was quick!” Mildred called back. “Come ahead.”

  Jak came in holding Doc’s bird by its webbed feet. Mildred mentally corrected herself. Their puffin. Her chicken dinner. Jak tossed down a bundle of branches of driftwood suitable for roasting sticks. Mildred took out her knife and began shaving points on the likeliest-looking pair. Jak got busy dressing the bird. He filleted the serving portions of meat off the bone and removed the giblets. He stuffed the guts and odds and ends back into the carcass for bait. At first light he would try his luck at rock fishing. Puffins were chubby birds, and he warmed some fat over the fire and rubbed the meat with it. He threaded cubed meat and giblets onto sticks and handed one to Mildred as he put two more hexamine tabs on the fire.

  Mildred began salivating as the smell of roasting puffin kabobs began to fill the blockhouse. Mildred eyed Jak’s jacket. It was like a superhero’s utility belt. You could never tell what Jak was holding. “Don’t suppose you have any marshmallows in there?”

  Jak peered at her. “What?”

  “Crackers?”

  Jak stoically returned his attention to roasting his puffin.

  Mildred didn’t bother with the Hershey bars. Anyone who habitually dropped their prepositions and articles was too good a straight man for his own good, and hers. Baiting Doc was infinitely more fun. But Mildred was cold, tired and more than a little scared. She searched for a subject that might tempt Jak into blurting out a few more monosyllables than usual. Generally his favorite subjects were knives and food. “Doc mentioned a fishing boat. Maybe tomorrow we’ll be eating—” Jak’s head snapped up. His ruby gaze burned intently out into the darkness surrounding the broken blockhouse. Mildred had seen that look before. She had a terrible, sinking feeling she wasn’t going to get to eat her barbecued puffin. She drew her blaster and spoke low. “Company?”

  Jak rose and stepped on the fire. Night had fallen outside. The hexamine cubes were crushed and smothered beneath Jak’s boot, and the blockhouse plunged into darkness. Mildred heard him thumb back the hammer on his Colt. “Trans,” he said softly. Together they moved to the doorway of the mat-trans chamber. They knelt within and put the door of the blockhouse into a cross fire. Outside the wind moaned and the drizzling rain pattered. Collected water on the roof dripped through the shattered ceiling.

  Mildred whispered, “What’s our status?”

  “Surrounded,” Jak replied.

  “Fuck.”

  Jak grunted agreement.

  Mildred’s eyes ached with effort as she tried to perceive anything in the inky blackness. She blinked as she caught site of something through one of the empty windows. “Jak, nine o’clock.”

  “See it.”

  Something was moving. Mildred squinted. It was like a few tiny orange fireflies moving up and down and winking in and out. They were coming toward the blockhouse. The fireflies suddenly multiplied and started acting crazy. Mildred did the math. Someone was carrying something covered and burning. Feet slapped on the wet rock of the escarpment outside. Someone had broken into a run. “Jak! They’ve got some kind of bomb—”

  The interior of the blockhouse strobed with the muzzle-blasts from Jak’s Magnum blaster. Mildred’s .38 joined it. A big bundle of something flew through the window. Pottery shattered as it hit the floor of the blockhouse. A bucket load of red-hot coals spilled over the abandoned puffin kabobs. Something black and dirtlike mixed with the coals as the ceramic components of the bomb shattered. The coals flared brightly and then black fumes as thick as smoke began billowing out of the burning mess.

  “Trans!” Jak shouted.

  Mildred hit the lever to close the door and activate the mat-trans, but it failed just as it had done on the last hundred attempts. The mat-trans was still locked into its seventy-two-hour cycle. Jak’s blaster boomed, but the enemy was making no attempt to assault. They were letting whatever filth they had thrown do their work for them. Mildred got her first whiff of the fumes and nearly gagged. It smelled like some rotting sweet combination of burned sugar and incense. The moaning wind blew through the empty windows and doorway of the blockhouse, and the foul smoke billowed straight into the mat-trans chamber like sentient barbecue smoke chasing its chosen victim at a cookout. Mildred covered her mouth and nose with her hands, but it did no good. She had to breathe.

  “Jak!” Mildred hacked and choked. Jak didn’t answer. She couldn’t see anything through the smoke and darkness other than the smoldering coals on the floor and the dark fumes endlessly blossoming out of them. The light of the coals began spinning. Mildred closed her eyes and the entire planet spun. She opened her eyes again and squeezed off two more rounds at nothing in particular. Her eyes were burning. Her lungs were burning. She felt like she was violently drunk on tequila. Her hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Mildred fell to her knees and threw up. She tried to stand again and realized she had dropped her blaster. She knelt and fumbled for it in the darkness, but she couldn’t find it. Mildred’s eyelids felt like they were filled with hot sand and as heavy as a mountain. It was nice to close them. It was nicer down here. Someone had wrapped her brain in soft, fuzzy blanket. The smoke was rising, and the cold air at floor level was refreshing. Mildred blinked and when she opened her eyes she didn’t remember lying down. The surface of the mat-trans floor was blissfully cool against the side of her face.

  Mildred closed her eyes again.

  Chapter Seven

  The stickie erupted out of the duct in slow motion, like toothpaste out of a tube. J.B.’s shotgun blast had smeared away a great deal of its face and head. As the stickie was pushed outward, it dripped congealed goo from its cratered skull into the control room. Its narrow, dislocated shoulders crackled and popped as it was squeezed forth like sausage. J.B. slung the M-4000 and hefted his Uzi, pushing the selector lever to semiauto and dropped to one knee as he waited for the dead stickie to finish extruding.

  The stickie’s corpse popped like a cork.

  J.B. got off one shot and then the mutie’s cadaver flew into him like they were lovers who’d been separated for years. J.B. saw stars as they went skull-to-skull. Jellied blood and brain filled his eyes and mouth as he fell backward, gagging as he tried to disentangle himself. There was nothing left of the stickie below its rib cage.
J.B. shouted as something grabbed his ankle.

  Krysty snapped awake at the sound of the blaster shot and scooped up her weapon.

  “J.B.!” The Armorer was flat on his back and covered with gore as he wrestled with approximately half of a dead stickie. Spindly arms dragged him by the ankle toward the duct. Krysty leaped forward and grabbed a rubbery wrist. She leaned in to get off a head shot down the duct. The stickie let go of J.B. with one hand and grabbed Krysty. She screamed as suckers bit into her flesh, and the stickie yanked her to her knees. She could see the mutie’s head impossibly hunched between its arms in the duct. Krysty arm-wrestled with the creature and quickly began to lose. The rubbery, boa-constrictor-like strength of the stickie was sickening. Her blaster fell with a clatter as her hand went numb. Any progress she made helped pull the stickie out of the duct. Krysty spun in the mutie’s suckered grip. She braced one boot against the wall and then drove the heel of the other again and again into the stickie’s face. It hissed and cooed and bit at the stacked heel.

  J.B. rolled the corpse away and did a sit-up. “Move!”

  Krysty yanked her foot back and J.B. shoved the barrel of his Uzi down the duct and into the stickie’s mouth. He pulled the trigger once and the stickie’s arms went limp. J.B. ripped his boot out of its dead grip. He pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and began wiping the gore from his face.

  “Gaia!” Krysty snarled as she pulled her wrist free. The stickie’s hand suckers popped and made wet kissing noises as they very reluctantly loosened their hold on her flesh. Krysty flexed her hand as circulation returned and grimaced. Her forearm was a mass of circular lamprey-like wounds. There was hardly anything in the Deathlands more septic than any orifice in a stickie’s body. J.B.’s eyes would bear washing out if they could spare the water.