by James Axler
Ryan wanted to ask which ville, but that would have revealed too much. There had to be a settlement nearby. “I’m an escaped slave. My friends and I ran into your trick waterfall on the edge of the Great Salt.”
Big Joe shrugged. “I’ve gotten lots of folks from there. That moss in the water works great. Makes folks sleep for days.”
“There were six of us,” Ryan persisted. “I only have one eye, and there was a woman with red hair, a tall guy, a short guy, a teenager with white skin and a short woman with dark skin. That mean anything?”
“Oh, those! Yeah, I remember you folks. Nice tits on the redhead, great ass on the raven.”
“Raven?” Mildred bridled, then realized the man meant her black hair color and not her skin. Just about the only good things to come out of the nuclear holocaust was the abolishment of racism. These days, there were only norms and muties, nothing else mattered.
The blind man grinned in memory. “Oh, she was a looker, nice and curvy, just my type.” He chuckled. “Almost rode the girl myself, but that lowers the price too much. Biz comes first, then me!” He roared with laughter, a slightly hysterical edge creeping into his voice. Slowly, the man calmed, his breathing ragged and uneven. “But that was a woman’s voice I just heard. Angry bitch, too. That you, little raven?”
“Yes,” Mildred hissed, blushing furiously.
“Wow, you’re hot for blood, ain’t ya?” Big Joe chuckled. “Can’t say that I blame you much. Being escaped slaves and such.” His fist tightened on the checkered grip of the rapid-fire, and the companions shifted positions, their own weapons raised and ready.
With a sigh, Big Joe relaxed his grip. “Well, if you came back for revenge, it sure as nuking hell sounded like you got it,” he rumbled. “I heard the fight downstairs. You folks beat my whole damn crew. There ain’t nobody left alive but me.” Then the man growled, “But you never could have done it if my son hadn’t pounded us flat only last week! He opened the gate, so to speak.”
“That could be,” Ryan said diplomatically. “But we’re not here for revenge. Let’s talk some biz.”
The blind man scowled. “What are you yammering about?”
“When we were captured,” Ryan said, trying not to grit his teeth over the word, “we were carrying packs, blasters and some tech. Give it back, and we let you live.”
“Blasters?” Big Joe grunted, waving his weapon. “Shitfire, One-eye, take what you want. Take it all. We lost, the Boneyard belongs to you folks now.”
“There was a canvas bag with lettering on it,” Mildred hastily added, trying to keep her tone soothing. “That was a medical bag.”
“No shit, yaw’ll had a predark med bag?” The man whistled, the stump of his missing arm twitching slightly. “Son of a bitch, a man could retire for life with one of those. But nope, never saw it. My son must have gotten there first. He often looted the traps for stuff before we gathered in the prisoners. Come to think of it, weren’t no clothes there, neither. Shoulda aced him years ago for that, but he was kin, and…well, you know how it is…” His voice trailed off, almost as if he was going to sleep.
“Your son is Peter, the leader of the Pig Iron Gang,” Doc said in a carefully measured tone, the one he used to encourage reluctant students to speak before the class.
“Yeah, goes by Petrov now,” Big Joe added. “Mother was a Soviet, probably something there, I dunno…” The man shrugged, tiny splotches of fresh blood welling up from his many wounds.
Impatiently, the companions waited a few minutes, but it was soon obvious the man wasn’t going to add anything more.
“Look, if we get back my med bag I can repair your eyes,” Mildred lied outrageously. “I can transplant some from your aced men. Easy as shifting brass from one blaster to another.”
“That…can be done?” Big Joe whispered, a fleeting touch of hope in the words.
“Absolutely. I’m a skilled healer,” Mildred said, feeling sick to her stomach over the lie.
“Just tell us where to find your son,” Ryan added, clumsily holstering his blaster to let the other man hear. “He lives, you live, everybody wins. That’s good biz. Deal?”
Inhaling deeply, Big Joe raised his head to blindly face the universe, then nodded as if coming to a long-delayed decision.
“No deal, outlanders,” he growled with a smile, then turned the Ingram around to squeeze the trigger. The chattering rapid-fire danced as the stream of hot lead tore into the shirt of the wounded man, blowing open his chest and internal organs. As the body slumped, the smoking blaster dropped from his hand to clatter onto the cold marble floor.
“Shit,” Jak drawled. “Now what do?”
Holstering his blaster properly, Ryan brushed back his hair. “Okay, first we recce this place to make sure it’s empty,” he said gruffly. “Next, we loot this place to the walls.”
“Then we find that ville Big Joe mentioned and start hunting for the Pig Iron Gang,” J.B. added, recovering the Ingram from the floor and working the slide to eject a jammed round. “After that…it’s chilling time.”
Chapter Nine
Starting at the top of the museum, it took the companions several hours to check every room, closet and alcove to make sure the top four levels of the museum were clear of any more bonemen.
“Okay, last level,” J.B. said, pushing open the door to the basement with the stubby barrel of his new Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol. The sawed-off scattergun was holstered at his hip, and a fringed leather bag hung at his side, pleasantly heavy with road flares, spare ammo clips, packs of black powder, a coil of fuse and some assorted odds and ends.
“Looks like the bonemen saw some hard fighting down here,” Ryan muttered, working the bolt on the Marlin longblaster. The predark hunting rifle had been locked inside Big Joe’s gun safe, along with some reloading equipment, a military Starlite scope with no batteries and six full boxes of brass. His handblaster was strapped around his waist, and an ammo pouch across the back was packed with spare rounds for the titanic Marlin. Personally, Ryan would have preferred the much more reliable Browning autoblaster down in the bomb shelter, but this would do for now. A rock in your hand was better than a rapid-fire at the bottom of a well, as the Trader liked to say.
“Big Joe’s people weren’t very good shots,” Krysty said skeptically, hefting an AK-47 rapid-fire. There was a lot of loose brass scattered about the floor, and the walls were pockmarked with hits. Several of the holes still contained the embedded lead.
Her new rapid-fire had no stock, which made it nicely compact for indoor combat, and there was a bayonet attached to the end of the barrel. The woman had a pocket full of spare clips for the weapon, and the Colt .38 handblaster was holstered at the front of her gun belt for easy access.
“Too much time laying traps and not enough on the gun range,” Mildred agreed, thumbing back the hammer on her oddball Taurus blaster. “But the other group were pretty damn good, better than most sec men we encounter.” A WWI ammo belt was strapped around her waist, the canvas pouch heavy with spare rounds for the Taurus manstopper, and a canvas bag hung at her side, a replacement for her lost med bag. At the moment it only held some strips of clean cloth, a jar of sulfur, a small knife and a plastic bottle of shine, but it was a start.
There had been plenty of replacement boots for all of the companions to take, but she wisely decided to keep the moccasins until the boots of the corpses could be thoroughly cleaned first. Whatever good qualities the bonemen had, hygiene wasn’t one of them.
“Not practice shooting, get shot,” Jak declared as if that was a self-evident fact. The 9-mm weapon he’d used earlier was tucked into a fancy shoulder holster, along with two spare clips. But tight in his fist, the teenager sported a S&W .44 Magnum blaster. He had found the weapon hidden under a pillow on Big Joe’s bed and claimed it immediately, along with a gun belt and holster. The leather loops were full of spare rounds from the massive handcannon, and his hatchet was hung at the side from a leather thong.
“Practice makes perfect,” Doc rumbled, keeping a finger on the trigger of the M-16/M-203 assault-rifle grenade-launcher combo. The weapon had been another gift from Big Joe, along with a wide leather belt lined with canvas ammo pouches, very similar to his old gun belt for the LeMat. Now, the old man almost clanked from the wealth of spare magazines for the M-16 rapid-fire, and the six 40-mm shells for the M-203 gren launcher attached under the main barrel. The man had been sorely tempted to take the Atchisson autoshotgun from the curtained alcove, but the nearsighted J.B. needed a weapon that delivered a wide spray, so the scholar had graciously accepted the combo in compensation.
Moving through the battlezone, J.B. saw a lot of spent brass lying along the baseboards and under the tables where it had been kicked out of the way to not trip running men. Bending, J.B. lifted a brass casing and recognized it was one of his reloads for the Uzi. “This was them, that Pig Iron Gang,” he growled, pocketing the shell for no reason.
“Can’t wait to meet them,” Ryan growled, using the barrel of the Marlin to push open a closet door. There was nothing inside but cleaning supplies, mops and buckets.
At the far end of the room were the tattered remains of a wooden door. Stepping carefully through the debris and spent brass on the floor, Krysty listened hard for any movements on the other side of the doorway and clearly heard somebody muttering curses.
Waggling her fingers for the others to stay close, Krysty took the point through the doorway, quickly stepping to the side so that the rest of the companions would have a clear field of fire if there was any trouble. Several lanterns hung from the ceiling, but only one was still burning, the wick down to the barest nubbin. Jail cells lined the left wall in the room, only one of them containing a prisoner. A teenager with a scraggly beard stood with an arm outside the iron bars, a bent piece of metal jammed inside the lock of his cell door. On the floor nearby was a rapid-fire with a bent barrel, the weapon completely disassembled.
“Who the frag are you, Red?” the youth asked, never ceasing in his attempts to trick open the lock.
“I could ask the same of you,” Krysty replied, lowering the Kalashnikov. “And seeing how I’m the one holding a blaster…”
“Cranston,” he muttered, fumbling with the makeshift lockpick. “Dunbar Cranston.” He stopped working and stepped back as the rest of the companions entered the room. “Shitfire, is this a rescue party or an execution squad?”
“That depends upon why you’re in there,” Ryan answered gruffly, looking around the cell. There was a bed with a mattress and blanket, a bucket with a lid for nightsoil and even a lantern and a couple of books. Obviously, this wasn’t a punishment cell, which left only one option.
“I’m a hostage,” the teenager growled. “As long as I’m still alive, my mother won’t attack this place.”
“Who she, boss of slavers?” Jak asked, going to the ruin of the iron gate and looking down the long corridor. There were still dried bloodstains on the floor, and the walls were chewed by ricochets, both coming and going.
“My mother is no slaver!” the teen snarled, grabbing the bar with both hands. “She is the Baron Althea Cranston of Delta ville, and I am her eldest son, Dunbar Cranston, the future baron!”
“Ryan,” the one-eyed man replied, jerking a thumb toward himself, then introduced the rest of the companions.
“Salutations,” Doc rumbled, bowing slightly.
“Yeah? Don’t know if it is yet,” Dunbar said, studying the people carefully. “I heard a lot of blasters talking before. You taking over the Boneyard?”
“Nope, blew to hell,” Jak replied, then he glanced at Krysty. The woman nodded, and together they walked down the corridor along opposite sides of the walls.
“Does…does that mean Big Joe is aced?” Dunbar asked, hope brightening his young face.
“Yes, quite aced,” Doc rumbled, then flashed a grin.
In spite of everything, the teen briefly smiled back. “Okay, then, let’s talk biz,” Dunbar said eagerly. “Get me out of this nuking cell and back to Delta ville alive, and you’ll need ten horses to carry the reward my mother will pay. Blasters, brass…” Awkwardly, the teen paused. “But you already have plenty of those. Okay, tell me what you want. Horses, wags, anything but slaves and it’s yours. Just ask!”
“We already have anything your ville can offer,” Ryan said, resting the Marlin on a shoulder and kneeling to look at the teen directly. “But we can use some information.”
“What do you want to know?” Dunbar asked cagily. “I’m not telling you anything about the defenses at Delta. Ain’t no knife sharp enough to make me squeal on my ville!”
“Good to know,” J.B. agreed, going to the door. Kneeling, he yanked out the bent spring from the broken Kalashnikov, then inspected the lock. “Dark night, this was hit with a ricochet! There’s no nuking way I can pick this lock.”
“Then use plas-ex,” Dunbar commanded urgently, a touch of fear in his eyes. “Don’t leave me here to starve. I really am the son of the baron.”
Pretending to think over the matter, Ryan reached out to take hold of the door and tried to shake it. The metal didn’t move in the slightest. “Know anything about the folks who hit this place before us?”
“You mean Petrov?” Dunbar asked in surprise. “They came through a couple of days ago, shot the place up, aced a bunch of Big Joe’s bonemen and jacked some hogs.” He paused. “You savvy hogs? Those are machines, kind of like a wag, but they only have two wheels—”
“Motorcycles, yes.” Ryan waved that aside. “Do you know where they were going?”
Dunbar was startled that a coldheart would know the old word. Clearly, these people weren’t just boots with blasters. “Yes, I know where they’re going,” the teen said, looking meaningfully at the locked door.
Just then, Krysty and Jak returned.
“All clear,” Krysty reported. “There’s nobody else around.”
“Found van in garage,” Jak added, holstering the S&W Magnum. “Plenty tools and juice.”
Still watching the prisoner, Ryan merely grunted at the news.
“Anything inside?” Mildred asked, tightening her grip on the Taurus.
“Nothing we can’t dump to replace with blasters and brass,” Krysty replied with a hard grin.
“Excellent!” Doc beamed in delight. “This cornucopia of ordnance will be of the greatest assistance in helping us to convince the thieves to return our property.”
“Then dig hole and have climb inside,” Jak added grimly.
“Absolutely, my dear lad!”
“First, we gotta find them,” J.B. said, slowly standing and dusting off his pants. “Now, what did Petrov and his crew look like again?”
Expecting this question, Dunbar answered promptly. “Petrov is tall, wears a long coat, blue boots with a bird design and fingerless gloves. He was carrying a bolt-action longblaster, a scattergun and a black stick with a sword hidden inside.”
Easing off the arming bolt of the rapid-fire, Doc inhaled sharply at that, but said nothing.
“There was a woman, triple-small, wearing a camouflage jacket with feathers and bits of metal debris all over it, and carrying a rapid-fire. Never heard her name,” Dunbar continued. “The third man had a beard, and—you’re not going to believe this, but I’m telling the truth—pieces of glass on a wire frame wrapped around his head. He was packing two blasters, both wheelguns, but one was broke because it had no hammer.”
Ryan and J.B. gave no reaction to the description. Slinging the rapid-fire across her back, Krysty forced herself to stay calm at the description, but her long hair flexed and curled, betraying her excitement.
“Now, the last guy was bald and bigger than a wendigo,” the teen continued. “They call him Tall, or something like that, and he carried a couple of big bore handblasters and had a patched canvas bag with a faded word on the side.”
“Okay, stand back,” Ryan commanded, swinging up the Marlin and taking aim. “Better yet, get un
der the bed.”
Quickly, the teen did so, and Ryan fired. The entire room shook from the thunderous discharge of the longblaster, and the iron door actually seemed to bend for a second under the triphammer impact of the big Magnum round, then the lock exploded into pieces and the door flew aside to slam against the bars in a ringing crash.
Rising back into view, Dunbar walked out of the cell and spit into the palm of his hand. Resting the Marlin on a shoulder, Ryan did the same and they shook.
“I’d like a blaster, if you don’t mind. Heard Big Joe had some mutie dogs.”
“No problem there,” Ryan replied, releasing his grip to pull his handblaster and point it at the teen. “That is, once Baron Cranston confirms who you are.”
Startled for only a second, Dunbar broke into laughter, then walked back into the cell and sat down. “Let me know when you’re ready to leave.” The teen chuckled, picked up a book and started to read.
BRAKING THEIR motorcycles to a halt on top of a hill, the Pig Iron Gang turned off their engines to conserve fuel, then looked down into a lush, green valley.
Most of the landscape below was filled with Tickle Belly Lake, the ridiculous name coming from an expanse of naturally carbonated water, which most people had never seen or even heard about before. Incredibly, animals and muties detested the fizzy stuff and avoided the entire valley as if it was a glowing rad crater, which just made the bubbling waters ever more attractive to thirsty people. The rest of the landscape was thickly covered with gigantic mutie pines trees, some of them with trunks thicker than a person could spread his or her arms, and even on the hill the gang caught the woodsy smell of pine sap and green nettles.
Curving along the shore of the noisy lake was Redstone ville, the high walls made entirely of wood, the exterior bristling with sharp nail points. The buildings inside the wall were in excellent condition, the former mobile homes now permanently anchored with a dense cover of adobe bricks.
