by James Axler
Time Nomads
Deathlands Saga
Book XI
James Axler
First edition June 1990
ISBN 0-373-62511-
Copyright © 1990 by Worldwide Library
Philippine copyright 1990
Australian copyright 1990
Content
Excerpt
Dedication
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Excerpt
"I'll drop the door," J.B. offered, reaching for the outside control lever.
As the Armorer touched the green lever, the sec door fell—not slowly, controlled by a mass of hydraulics and pistons, but all at once, with the infinite deadweight of solid vanadium steel. Hundreds of tons crashed to the concrete floor, nearly taking J.B, with it.
"Rad-Wast it!" he cursed, jumping back with the agility of a hunting puma.
The whole place shook. Dust and flakes of stone fell from the ceiling, creating their own choking fog. Ryan dropped to his hands and knees, cradling his head, ready for a major cave-in. But the echoes of the fallen door were swallowed up in the muffling stillness. Nothing more came away from the ceiling and walls.
As the air cleared, everyone looked at the sec door. It didn't seem to be damaged, but the concrete around its base was severely cracked. J.B. tried the control lever. He pushed gently, then put more of his weight against it. The tendons in his neck tightened under the strain, and a vein throbbed at his temple. But nothing happened.
"Trapped," Jak announced. The monosyllable said it all.
Dedication
It's been thirty years since I first saw John Stewart, singing as part of the Kingston Trio. Since then I've seen him plenty of times as a solo performer and bought every one of the string of wonderful, and largely unheralded, records. This is for John, with my thanks and admiration, from one of the legion of loyal friends and front-row dancers.
Quote
The past and present are only a heartbeat apart.
—From Tunnel Vision by Laurence James
Published by Blackie, 1989
Chapter One
MILDRED WYETH WAS at the most wonderful party of her life. The only dark spot was a nagging headache that lurked somewhere behind her eyes, giving occasional stabs of pain that left her feeling oddly weak and disoriented.
Everyone was there.
Martin and Coretta both smiled at her as she walked by and into the parlor where the buffet was laid out. Andrew and Jesse were involved in a heated discussion, both in danger of spilling their plates of gumbo on the carpet. They saw Mildred and grinned sheepishly, parting to allow her through.
Ralph was helping himself to some potato salad. "Can I serve you, Mildred?" he asked.
"No, thanks. I'll just pick a little."
"Sure?"
"Sure. Is it true that Jack and Bobby are coming along later?"
He nodded. "Surely is. Just about the biggest gathering we've seen. Your pa around?"
"Out in the garden with Mom."
"That's a pretty pistol you got there, Mildred. Not looking for trouble, are you? Not here, among friends?"
"It's a ZKR 551, Reverend. Six-shot blaster, chambered to take a standard Smith & Wesson .38."
"That the one you used in the Olympics? It looks kind of different."
For a moment Mildred was puzzled. "Guess it does, at that."
Through the window, she could see a couple singing by the barbecue, a tall, good-looking man and an attractive girl, their voices blending perfectly.
"Who're they?" she asked.
Ralph had moved away, and a crew cut white teenager answered her. "That's John and Buffy. They're going around with Bobby, playing at all his whistle-stops. They're cool."
Mildred strolled through the open doors, savoring the fresh air, catching the scent of orchids, hearing cicadas in the bushes. The garden was familiar and yet had features that she didn't quite recognize. Parts were bigger, and some of the angles at the corners seemed different.
She glimpsed her mother near a small ornamental fountain. She waved to her but got no response.
For a moment Mildred felt a strange, painful sensation, as though something had stirred deep within her brain, like a tiny metal orb revolving in the frontal lobe above the eyes. It was sharp enough to make her wince.
She closed her eyes, then jumped as someone laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry, Millie."
Uncle Josh, her father's younger brother, was the only one who ever called her Millie. Like her father, Josh was a minister.
"It's all right. Goodness, it's cold. I feel frozen. Really frozen."
For some reason, that seemed to be funny, and she smiled broadly. But her uncle didn't react. "Your father wants to speak to you, Millie. Out in the corner, under the magnolia."
That had always been his favorite place before…
"Before," she murmured.
"Over there." Uncle Josh pointed. "With some new friends."
"I didn't know he had any new friends. Who are they?"
Her uncle shook his head slowly. "Can't say I cotton to them too much, Millie. Over there. Four men and a lady."
"I'll go look."
The light seemed dimmer, but she could make out the short dark curls on top of her father's head, just visible above the back of the striped chair. And she could also see the five strangers that Josh had mentioned to her.
The girl caught her eye first. She was very tall, close to six feet, with a mane of the most wonderful hair that Mildred had ever seen. The deep, fiery crimson seemed to glow in the dim evening light. She half turned and smiled at Mildred, revealing eyes the color of melting emeralds. She was dressed in khaki overalls, tucked into dark blue leather Western boots, which had silver points chiseled into the toes, and silver spread-winged falcons embroidered on the sides. Next to her was a well-built man with a mop of black curly hair. He stood a couple of inches over six feet, and was broad-shouldered. He also turned at Mildred's approach and she saw, with no surprise at all, that he had a patch over his left eye. The man wore a long coat of dark leather with a white fur trim, and a white silk scarf was looped around his neck.
Next to her father stood a young boy, barely five and a half feet tall, with the most amazing hair. Whereas the woman's hair was like living fire, this was like spun snow, like the frozen spray off the highest waterfall, cascading over his neck and shoulders. The boy wore nondescript pants and a peculiar patc
hed jacket of leather and canvas. "Hi, Mildred," he called.
It crossed her mind to wonder how the teenager knew her name, although he did seem somehow familiar to her.
She took a few steps nearer the group, then stopped, stricken.
The pain came swirling back, sucking at her mind, knocking it off center. She was suddenly dizzy, and took several slow, deep breaths, fighting off the pangs of nausea. This time the pain was like clawed fingers scraping at the inside of her skull.
"You okay, Mildred?" the one-eyed man asked.
"Yeah, thanks, Ryan. Just a…better lay off the martinis for a spell, I guess."
"Want to sit down?" asked the sallow-faced man in the fedora hat and metal-rimmed glasses.
"Thanks, J.B., but I'll be fine."
"I fear that all is not well with the doctor lady," said the last member of the group. "Perchance the physician should heal herself."
The speaker was the oldest of the group. He was as tall as the one-eyed man but much skinnier, and wore a stained and faded frock coat of Victorian cut, and cracked knee boots. He sported an ebony cane with its silver top carved into the head of a lion. He smiled and half bowed, showing excellent teeth that were at odds with his lined face and long gray hair.
Mildred bowed back. "Thanks a lot, Doc. Courteous and useless as ever."
At the back of her mind was a slight bewilderment at how she knew these five strangers. The girl was called Krysty Wroth and the boy was Jak Lauren. She knew that.
"How?" she whispered to herself.
"Your father wants to see you, Mildred," said Ryan. Ryan Cawdor.
Mildred wondered, with so many of the civil rights leaders there, why her father was sitting still and silent in his old chair. Like many black Baptist ministers in the South, Reverend Wyeth had been active on all of the marches, as had Mildred's mother.
But her father was already…
"Dead," Krysty said.
"How's that?" Mildred asked.
"Dead on my feet. Double-bushed. Could do with a rest someplace."
"Let's go get some eats, lover," Ryan suggested. "Come on, folks. Leave Mildred and her father to a little privacy."
The five friends walked away across the grass, nodding and smiling to the groups of people talking and eating in the soft moonlight. Mildred watched them go, closing her eyes against the surging waves of sickness that swam up behind her temples. Her nostrils filled with the familiar scent of charcoal and grilled chicken. The lower branches of the magnolia seemed to dip around Mildred, closing her off with her father from the noise of the gathering.
"Daddy?"
Around her the party was fading into stillness. It was as if someone had thrown a vast cloak of black velvet over Mildred and the silent figure in the garden chair.
"Daddy? It's Mildred. Mildred Winonia Wyeth, your little girl."
The smell of burning from the barbecue behind her was stronger. Whoever was in charge of the cooking had been very careless and allowed some of the meat to scorch. Mildred wrinkled her nose and swallowed to try to clear her throat of the stench of burned flesh, but it seemed to be growing thicker.
"Best move, Daddy. That smell's real horrible and it'll…"
She moved to the front of the chair and stooped down to look directly into her beloved father's dark brown eyes.
For a moment Mildred believed she'd gone insane, that the disturbing sickness inside her skull was a symptom of a virulent madness.
Because what sat slumped in the seat was not remotely like her father, only barely resembling anything that had ever been human.
It was like a thick, blackened log that had been drawn, still burning, from the center of a fire.
There were a few charred rags hanging on the outside of the log and draped off the two branches that sprouted near the top and the two that dangled from the lower half. Smoke curled upward, and parts of the log still glowed ruby bright.
The head was a like a round, black stone, with charcoal pits where the eyes had been seared from their sockets. The mouth hung open, showing the startling whiteness of her father's teeth.
"Sweet Jesus Christ!" she breathed. "Oh, Daddy… what've they done to you?"
The ultimate horror.
The head moved, and sour, ashen breath soughed from the ruined lips. A hand trembled, the fingers like twigs from an old bonfire. The leathery skin cracked open and bright crimson blood flowed down over the flame-torn flesh, dripping onto the faded stripes of the canvas chair.
"Takes more'n fire to kill a man," croaked the corpse. "Said Joe, I didn't die."
Mildred started to scream.
"It's all right," a voice insisted. "It's all right."
Chapter Two
"IT'S ALL RIGHT," the voice repeated. "It's all right. Come on, Mildred."
She kept her eyes closed. That way, she wouldn't be tricked again. If she opened them, then the charnel horror that had once been her father might rise grinning before her.
"Been a bad jump for her, lover. Gotta remember it's her first."
"Yeah." Ryan shook her shoulder. "Come on, Mildred."
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Said something. Mouth opened."
"Try getting her on her feet, Ryan."
"Looks like she's in deep shock, J.B. Mebbe safer t'leave her a while."
"Could be the result of the freezing. She seemed real well when we thawed her out. But now…" Krysty's words faded away like rainwater down a storm drain.
"Slap her face. I would be the first to volunteer for the opportunity."
"Go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, Doc," Mildred managed.
There was a ripple of laughter, tinged with relief. Mildred took a chance and, cautiously, eased open her left eye.
"Welcome back to Deathlands," Ryan said, kneeling at her side.
She tried to sit up, but dizziness and sickness came rolling in over her and she lay down again.
"Goddamn! Inside of my head feels like it's been put on double spin and then vacuum-packed for your personal protection."
Krysty put a hand behind Mildred's shoulders and helped her sit up. "It'll pass. Some are worse than others."
"None of 'em fucking good." Jak grinned, brushing his fine white hair back off his narrow face. "I beg leave to second that," Doc Tanner boomed. "Though I confess that I am sorry to see so little improvement in your temperament, ma'am."
"What was the problem?" Ryan asked. "You were screaming like a kid."
The thirty-six-year-old black woman shook her head. "I should've known it was a dream, Ryan. I was less than one year old when my daddy was butchered, but I've seen plenty of filmclips and pictures of him. So that's what I thought I'd see in…" She shook her head again. "Just that I saw him. Dead. Like a burned log."
"Racists killed him, did they?" asked J. B. Dix, polishing his glasses on his sleeve.
"The Klan," she said venomously. "The mid-sixties were busy times for the Knights with their white sheets and their burning crosses."
"What's Klan?" Jak asked, curious.
"Ku Klux Klan. Redneck bigots. Only a year or so before I was born one of them put a bomb under the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. Went off and slaughtered four little girls. Children! Dynamite Bob Chambliss, his name. The white folks protected their own, and it was fourteen damned years before he finally went down for the murder. Fourteen years!"
The silvered glass walls of the chamber let in filtered, shadowy light. The metal disks in floor and ceiling had cooled and dimmed. The five others, hardened by previous jumps, were ready to move out. But Mildred still seemed shaky. Ryan encouraged her to carry on talking awhile.
"Dynamite Bob. I was born eight days after Christmas in 1964. The Klan burned Daddy alive less than a year after. May they rot in hell."
There was a long silence, which was broken by the teenager. "Did this just…'cos black? Not mutie or nothing?"
"No, not a mutie, Jak. Just a decent man who'd gotten
angry and felt he'd eaten enough crow to last him. He got to preaching to folks to stand up. Not just sit patient. Stand up and take what belonged. And the Klan didn't like that so they firebombed our house."
The tears came, unbidden, flowing over her cheeks, dripping to the floor of the mat-trans chamber.
"They catch them in the end, Mildred?" Doc asked quietly.
"They got caught. The law didn't do it. Sheriff was brother to one of the bombers and cousin to the other two."
"So, how did…" Krysty began.
"My father had some friends, some good, good friends who knew that the Klan had a real tight hold on things down there. So, the three men who did the bombing had an 'accident.' Real nasty. All three got burned alive. Seems a gas canister blew in the auto repair shop one of them owned. Lock sort of jammed. You know how it can be."
Ryan nodded. "Sure. I know how it can be, Mildred. I know."
None of the others had suffered too badly from the jump. Jak had a nosebleed, and Doc complained about a nagging headache behind his eyes, but apart from that they were in good shape.
Even Mildred recovered quickly, joining the others as Ryan opened the gateway door.
"Clear," he said. "I can see through to the main control. Looks all sealed and working good."
Everyone bolstered their blasters.
The small anteroom that was present in virtually every redoubt was bare of furniture, as were most of them. The evacuation before sky-dark began had obviously been planned and orderly, with every shred of paper picked up. The walls showed faint discolorations where notices or posters had been, but all of that had been a hundred years ago.
All the main consoles in the larger room beyond seemed to be working perfectly.
Mildred stared around her, fascinated. "I'd heard rumors about all this—the Totality Concept, Overproject Whisper and Cerberus—but they kept it well hidden. And they're still here, still functioning."
J.B. answered her. "Sure. You have to remember these redoubts were all built in the last four or five years of the twentieth century, in isolated, hidden places. And most of 'em escaped the nuking. Most were powered by eternal generators. Atomic stuff. Nobody in Deathlands has the technology to get into a sec-locked redoubt."
