Savage Armada

by James Axler

  "Low?"

  "Damn near out."

  "Shit!"

  "Now Doc and I checked around," J.B. said, tapping some ashes onto the floor, "and there's everything we need to make more. Give me some ceramic or plastic bowls, and I'll have folks filling barrels with gunpowder in less than a day."

  "Like we use?" Dean asked, sounding surprised. He had never seen bullets reloaded except from vacuum-packed tins of silvery powder from a redoubt.

  "Our blasters don't use gunpowder," Ryan explained. "I know we call it gunpowder, but it isn't. Stuff is called cordite, a mix of powdered nitroglycerin and guncotton. That's why it's smokeless, and doesn't cause shells to jam."

  "Gunpowder is the same thing as black powder."

  J.B. finished. "Just processed differently. And got ten times the power."

  "Going to need plastic window screens," Doc said, patting the LeMat at his hip.

  J.B. smiled. "Yeah. You would know that."

  "If what we heard about the lord baron is true," Krysty said, pushing away her dirty plates, "he'll go ballistic when he learns we've got the secret."

  "No choice. When folks hear there's a new baron, somebody is going to try and attack before you're dug in deep. We'll have to move fast, and leave soon as we can," Ryan agreed. "Then the locals can settle who's in charge among themselves. Not our business."

  "True enough."

  "Hopefully there is something useful in the vault."

  "You mean the armory," Krysty corrected.

  "Nope. That was full of powder and shot for the sec men, a bunch of crossbows, axes, spare parts from broken weapons, that sort of stuff." He glanced sideways. "But your faithful guards wouldn't let us in without bloodshed, or you."

  "Because I'm the baron," Krysty said with a sour expression. Loyalty was one thing; stupidity was another. "Okay, let's see what Langford was hiding from everybody."

  "Could be a pile of predark porn," Mildred suggested.

  "Or a nuke. Only one way to find out."

  Rising from the dining table, the companions headed for the door. Outside, the squad of armed sec men in the courtyard moved quickly out another door, weapons at the ready.

  IN THE NOISY gaudy house, the madam was crouched over a basin of warm water, washing herself in preparation for the next sec man who lay naked on the sweaty bed, when she heard a snatch of conversation from departing customers.

  "…he said it's gray?"

  "Yeah, and supposed to be a lot better than our black powder."

  "Gray powder. Ain't no law against making that, is there?"

  "Nope!"

  Brushing past the nude man, the madam rushed to the doorway, but there was a crowd of sec men waiting in line, and it was impossible to tell who had been talking. Nuking hell!

  Going to the railing, she leaned over, receiving a horde of catcalls from the men below over the glorious cleavage on display. She flashed some to make them happy, then closed her robe, cinching the belt tight.

  "Sue-Ann!" the madam shouted over the moaning and panting coming from everywhere in the predark library.

  "Yeah?" a voice called from behind a marble column. A topless woman stepped into view, her hand still busy.

  "I'm going to the dock for a minute," the madam said. "You're in charge till I come back."

  Her straggly hair in wild disarray, the slut slowed in her work while staring thoughtfully at the excited older woman.

  "Half," she mouthed silently.

  Expecting that, the madam nodded agreement and rushed down the stairs and into the muddy streets, heading straight for the front gate of the ville.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stepping outside the post office, Krysty looked over Cold Harbor ville while the guards on either side of the door dropped their cigs and snapped to attention.

  "Evening, Baron!" one shouted, while the other man clumsily ground his cig under a boot.

  The woman walked past the sec men, wrinkling her nose at the thick smells in the night air. The ville was ablaze with crackling torches and fish-oil lanterns. In the flickering yellow light, chickens ran wild along the dirt streets, and a group of mangy dogs tormented a squealing pig wallowing in a mud hole. Swarms of flies buzzed thick around a public latrine, and the houses were ramshackle predark buildings badly fixed with banana leaves and bamboo. Most had no glass in the windows, and only a few possessed doors of any kind.

  In the street, a hooting crowd was gathered around two sec men having a slow-motion fistfight, while naked children ran about screaming and a woman openly relieved herself in the weeds along a blacksmith shop. On the corner was the local gaudy house filled with a riot of partially clad people having sex in every possible combination, then a sec man stuck his head out a window and retched into the street, almost drenching some folks hurrying by. Only the dimly seen silhouettes of the guards walking along the top of the brick wall had a semblance of order.

  "Mother Gaia," the woman muttered. "It's a drunken pesthole."

  "That's 'cause it's not their ville," Ryan said, brushing away some buzzing flies. "The kitchen staff told me that the original builders of the place got aced by a plague. These folks found it empty and moved in."

  "That explains a lot," J.B. said, trying not to breathe. "You build something, you take care of it."

  Her hair flaring in anger, Krysty turned to the closest sec man. "Where is the vault?"

  "Behind the palace," he replied, the words slightly slurred, showing that he had been celebrating while on duty, a capital offense under most barons. "Here, I'll show ya."

  "Stay," Ryan ordered loudly to get through his fogged mind. "I know the way."

  He shrugged. "Sure…"

  Stepping over the defensive sandbags, the companions started along the main street, dodging revelers and pools of ripe offal.

  "Whole ville must be drunk in celebration," Krysty said, watching her step. "Great time for us to be attacked."

  "I know," Ryan said grimly. "And it's not booze. They don't know how to make it."

  "Not know how shine?" Jak demanded, then gave a bitter laugh. "Stupes."

  "There we agree, my taciturn friend," Doc rumbled in his deep voice.

  "Dark night," J.B. cursed, squinting at the ground so he wouldn't trip. "We'll have to start from scratch to make the juice we need. Be trapped here for weeks."

  "So what is it they're drunk on?" Krysty asked. "Jolt?"

  "No, some local herb called ralk," Mildred explained dourly. "They chew it or make tea. Gets them high enough, but it's not wolfweed or marijuana. Nothing I've run across before. Some local mutation. Harmless enough."

  A sudden movement made her pull a blaster, and then a man staggered from the shadows with his pants around his ankles and holding a panting woman to his chest, her dress unbuttoned to the point where her sagging breasts bounced freely. Arms wrapped around his neck, legs around his waist, she gave little jumps as he steadily hiccuped and fed her sips of some fluid from a striped gourd.

  "If taken in small doses," the physician finished, replacing her blaster. An entire ville of people hooked on drugs. She shook her head in disbelief.

  Following the sandbag wall, the companions reached a quiet area behind the palace. Nobody was singing or dancing there, and it was obvious why. The area was ringed by a series of short poles with human skulls balanced on top. A row of crosses with skeletons tied to the crossbars gave mute testimony of public executions. There was a series of sharp metal poles, bones scattered below, a skeleton impaled halfway down on the thick shaft, the pole entering between his legs and exiting out his gaping mouth. Nearby was a shallow pit with the ground blackened from flames, a fresh new stake standing in the middle, waiting for the next victim. A complex collection of rusty iron pipes formed a sort of dome, and hung inside the kindergarten jungle gym was a series of tiny iron cages, more dead jammed inside, some still possessing faces, one prisoner's arm extended through the bars clawing for freedom. Fat seagulls roosted on the cages and pecked for tidbits of ro
tting meat from the decaying corpses.

  Nobody spoke as they passed the killing field. It wasn't the first seen, nor would it be the last.

  "There's the armory," Ryan said, pointing.

  Set in a pool of light between the brick palace and execution ground was a squat brick building, lit by lanterns and guarded by more sec men. These seemed wide awake and studied the people coming toward them intently.

  Heading directly for the armory, the companions passed through the execution ground, when a faint cry caught their attention.

  "One is still alive," Krysty said softly.

  Fumbling in her pocket for the flashlight, Mildred pumped the charging handle several times, then hit the button. Sweeping the area, she saw movement in the cages, and now could see the birds stabbing the man inside a cage with their sharp beaks.

  "Chill me…" a hoarse voice pleaded from within the iron bars.

  Ryan started for his blaster, then remembered how little ammo he had and pulled his panga instead. Mildred held the light steady as Ryan went to the cage and chased the birds away.

  The seagulls cawed their annoyance and took wing while Ryan tried to reach the throat of the man inside, but the spaces between the bars were too small for his big hands. Checking the hinged door, Ryan saw it was closed with a heavy padlock. The prisoner whimpered again plaintively, as Ryan reluctantly drew the SIG-Sauer and took aim, but then paused.

  "You," he growled in recognition.

  "Please…" the sec man whined, his face a scabby ruin from the hungry birds, a blood-encrusted knife jutting from his belly, wads of cloth and ropes holding it in place.

  Without a word, Ryan holstered his piece, turned and walked back to the others while the prisoner pleaded for death.

  "Let him rot," he growled, giving back the flashlight. "Move on."

  J.B. tilted back his fedora. "That the guy who aced Jones?"

  "Yeah."

  The group only got a yard before a thundering roar lit up the execution grounds, and there was a terrible cry from the man inside the cage. As the blast faded into the night, there were no more sounds from the prisoner, except for the drip of blood falling onto the ground.

  "Misfire," Dean said, holstering the blaster.

  Ryan gave his son a hard stare. "No more," he ordered. "We're low enough on ammo as it is."

  "My ammo," Dean answered defiantly, then relented. "But you're right. It was a waste."

  Waiting a minute, Ryan decided the boy meant it and started walking again. Dean was becoming a man and didn't blindly follow orders anymore. That was good and bad. But they would need a serious talk about this real bastard soon.

  A group of sec men charged around the palace, their weapons at the ready. Ryan recognized them as the guards from the palace. He had thought they were being followed, but in all the chaos on the streets, he hadn't been sure.

  "We heard a shot," one panted. "What's the problem?"

  "You okay, Baron?" another asked, wheezing for breath.

  Easing J.B.'s Uzi off her shoulder, Mildred glanced over the sec men in disapproval. Too much good living. They were in terrible shape. If invaders got past the wall cannon, it would be a slaughter.

  "We're executing a prisoner," Ryan said shortly. "Why aren't you at your posts?"

  "We are," a man explained awkwardly. "We're her bodyguards."

  "Said you didn't want any in the palace," another added. "But we're outside now."

  "Got us," Jak said.

  "Any problem with that?" J.B. asked, jacking the slide on his pump-action S&W M-4000.

  Mildred did the same with the Uzi. Without his glasses, J.B. was more of a threat to the companions with the rapidfire than others.

  "Course not," the sergeant said, through gritted teeth. "Baron can choose whoever the fuck he…she wants for bodyguards. She won the fight. Wroth is the baron. She wants you, that's all I needs to know."

  "Just ain't heard her say it," another added. The others muttered agreement and didn't relax their stance.

  "How dare you speak in that manner?" Krysty said, walking closer and slapping the sergeant. She didn't want to, but there was no other way to make the point. "This is my ville, and you will do as you're told!"

  "But, ma'am," he answered, rubbing his stinging cheek, "we were only—"

  "Silence! These people are my blood kin," she lied. "Obey them as you would me. Understand? Or do I need new sec men?"

  "Of course, my lady," a guard said, hastily lowering his blaster. "Our apologies."

  Ryan watched the other sec men. The troops were unhappy with the idea and would bear watching. The son of a baron, he knew what to do next in this situation, but did she?

  "My lady," he spoke urgently, "a word, please."

  "Later," Krysty said. "You there, name!"

  Shifting the blaster to his other hand, the man saluted. "Sergeant Armstein, Baron."

  "Take your squad and shut the ville down. No more parties. In one candle of time, I want the streets cleared and everybody sent home. Use the gaudy house as your base to coordinate everything. There's a lot to do tomorrow, and I don't want the entire population too exhausted to work."

  They were being placed in charge of the gaudy house? Armstein tried to hide his pleasure at the news, while the other sec men openly grinned and nudged each other.

  "It will be done, Baron," the sergeant stated. "Anything else?"

  "Get moving," Krysty said brusquely. "We're going to do an inventory of the armory. And remember, you have only one candle. Do not fail me, Sergeant."

  The familiar words sent a chill down the man's spine, and he gushed loyalty to the woman as he and the squad started off at a brisk run.

  "Go straight to the gaudy house, kick everybody else out, then grab a quick one," Mildred said, easing off the bolt on the Uzi. The spring of the tough little blaster had been repaired many times, and there was no sense putting a strain on the metal for no reason. They were safe enough now.

  "Which will keep them busy until tomorrow," Krysty said. "If we're going to be here for a while, got to find some to win their loyalty."

  "You have it already," Ryan said. "It's only us they want to chill."

  "Was going to use sec men to make black powder," J.B. stated, sliding the shotgun over a shoulder. "But mebbe I'll use the slaves instead. Less chance of any trouble."

  "From pirates?" Dean asked.

  The Armorer grinned. "Under a death sentence anyway. But if they can escape with the formula, be rich enough to buy a ville."

  "Or a new ship," Ryan finished. "Yeah, smart. The slaves won't try anything until they know what to do. Then they'll try to escape. Makes sense."

  "Trader always used to say that the only person you can really trust is an enemy with a hand in your mag."

  "Got that right."

  As the companions finally turned and walked away, the circling seagulls eagerly descended in a flock upon the jungle gym and began to continue their interrupted meal.

  In the golden illumination of the lanterns, the armory could be seen as a stout brick building, with rusty nails sticking out of the mortar between the bricks like porcupine quills. The door was formed of wooden planks held together with iron bands, and two guards stood outside, holding bolt-action rifles, not flintlocks. Ryan spotted another man on the roof who was trying to stay out of sight. That guard carried a sawed-off shotgun and a brace of revolvers.

  The guards snapped to attention as Krysty came forward. One was a lanky man with a goatee, the other short and seemingly made of solid muscle. Both sported a lot of scars, and had the neutral expressions of coldhearts. Exactly the sort any smart baron would use to protect the blasters. Men like these couldn't be bullied or bribed. They were just waiting for trouble to arrive so they could use their fancy blasters. "Door," she said bluntly.

  "Yes, Baron Wroth," the bearded guard said, fumbling at his belt and rushing to unlock the door. Shouldering his blaster, he pushed open the door with a lot of grunting. The other didn't assist, but
stepped back to have a clear field of fire. Finally the first guard moved it aside enough for the companions to enter. "Here, Baron," he said, reaching into a box on the ground and extracting a lantern. He lit it with a glowing piece of bamboo from the flame of his own lantern and gave it to her. "You'll need this. No windows inside, or lanterns, either."

  "Smart. Thank you," Krysty said, accepting the light and going inside.

  The others followed, with Ryan going in last. Halfway through the door, he paused and turned at the waist.

  "What was that again?" he demanded hotly.

  "I said fuck you, outlander," the sec man with the Remington snarled. "Can't stand you hangers-on. She's the baron, and you're just some leech sucking on her ass. Baron gives the word, and you're all in a cage."

  "Should chill ya right here," the short man snarled, swinging his big-bore weapon around.

  "Go for it," Ryan muttered, dropping into a gunfighter's crouch, his hand inches away from the SIG-Sauer.

  "Not with her inside," the sec man growled, lowering his blaster. "I miss you and a ricochet might set the whole place off."

  "Later," the goateed man promised, shaking his longblaster.

  "Any time," the Deathlands warrior replied and walked backward into the building, never taking his eye off them. Once inside, Ryan rammed the interior bolts home.

  "From now on," he said, "we travel in pairs. Nobody goes anywhere alone. The locals are itching to replace us as the baron's bodyguards."

  "Definitely using the slaves," J.B. said, craning his neck to see around the dark room.

  Lit only by the one lantern, the armory was masked in heavy shadows, but they could still see that the walls were made of a different color brick than those outside, so there was probably two layers of brick, maybe three. It would be extremely difficult for anybody trying to break in. And the floor was composed of slabs of sidewalk concrete. Ryan thumped a boot heel down hard and heard only a muffled thump of solid rock.

  "Whoever built the bunker knew what they were doing," he said. "The original builders must have disassembled a city to make this place."

  "I'll bet they had plans to do the streets, too, before they died," Krysty added, checking out the ceiling.