by James Axler
“Nothing they stole is here,” J.B. answered, checking the storage compartment hidden underneath a hinged seat. “Want me to ace the bikes?”
“Just disable them,” Ryan decided, throwing away a .44 Magnum round that had a spot of corrosion on the bottom. “We might need them later.”
Drawing her Brazilian revolver, Mildred pretended to check the ammunition while riding closer to Doc until their legs bumped.
“Yes, madam?” he asked, without looking up from his work.
“Want me to wrap that?” Mildred whispered, spinning the cylinder. “I have enough strips of cloth to do a good job.”
“What are you talking about, dear lady?” Doc asked, feigning confusion.
“I saw you favoring that hand back in the village,” she replied, closing the blaster to face him directly. “Firing that goddamn 40-mm launcher as a shotgun broke your wrist, didn’t it?”
“It is merely sore, at worst, a mild sprain, I assure you,” Doc demurred uneasily.
Reaching out, Mildred grabbed his hand inside the pocket and squeezed. Doc grunted but didn’t turn white or gasp outloud.
“Fair enough. A sprain won’t get infected,” Mildred said, sitting back in the saddle. “Just don’t use it again, or else the recoil of that blunderbus will snap those bones like breadsticks.”
“Like…what was that again?”
“Matchsticks.”
“Ah.”
“Done,” J.B. announced, dropping the spark plugs into his bag and tucking the toolbox back where he found it originally.
Personally, the man would have preferred to ride a bike instead of a horse. He got along much better with machines than animals. Unfortunately, a Harley made a very distinctive sound. The signature rumble of the big flathead engine would instantly tell Petrov and his gang of coldhearts who was coming. Stealth was more important than speed at the moment. Besides, a quiet hunter ate meat every day, as the old saying went. Wise words.
Closely studying the landscape up ahead, Ryan easily found the entrance to the box canyon, the gentle river flowing in from one side of a redstone pillar and out the other.
“It’s my turn to take point, lover,” Krysty said, loosening the blaster in its holster for a faster draw.
“Nobody is on point this time,” Ryan countered. “Everybody off your horse, and let’s find some rope!”
That confused the companions for a moment, then grinning widely they got to work. Lashing the pommels of the saddles together, the companions walked the tethered horses along the river until they reached the fork. Smacking the animals on the rumps, they sent the horses trotting upstream while they crossed to the island.
Keeping a careful watch on the top of the cliffs on the opposite side of the river, the companions proceeded slowly along the base of the pillar, half expecting to be attacked by snipers at any second. However, nothing moved in the curving canyon aside the rustling green plants that grew in abundance along the rocky shore. Minutes later, the riderless horses came splashing back into view from around the curve.
Catching one by the reins, Ryan led the animals onto dry land and checked them over for any wounds, but they were completely undamaged.
“No shots fired, or any cursing,” J.B. muttered, twisting his hands on the sawed-off scattergun. “Which means they’re either not here, aced or asleep.”
“Or inside,” Mildred stated.
“And exactly how would they manage to do that?” Krysty asked pointedly.
“Always plan for the worst to happen,” Doc said, clearly quoting from something.
Nodding to that, Ryan passed the horses to Jak and started along the base of the pillar once more, working the bolt on the Marlin to chamber a round.
Moving past an outcropping of the strange redstone, the companions stopped at the sight of a crushed droid pinned underneath a huge granite boulder. It didn’t take them long before they discovered the burned remains of a string trip wire that led directly to a section of the rocky ground churned by a powerful explosion.
“Yep, it was one of my pipe bombs,” J.B. stated, lifting a twisted piece of melted metal. “I recognize my own work.”
Fireblast! Ryan thought. The coldhearts were inside the redoubt. They had to have aced the droid and slipped past the blast doors before they closed. It was the only possible answer.
Checking for any more trip wires or land mines, the companions moved across the sloped shore to reach the blast doors. Even though he knew it was useless, Ryan pressed his ear against the cool metal to try to hear inside, but there was only the drumbeat of his own pounding heart.
Going to the hidden keypad, Krysty checked for traps before tapping in the access code. As the blast doors rumbled aside, a thick black cloud rolled out, and the companions were assaulted by the strident clanging of a fire alarm. How could the base be on fire? There were automatic suppression systems built into the ceilings and walls! Then the companions heard the rattle of a rapid-fire and muffled voices shouting orders.
“The horses go first,” Ryan commanded.
Forcing the reluctant horses into the redoubt, the companions followed close behind, squinting to see through the billowing smoke, their blasters at the ready. It didn’t matter if they were about to tangle with Petrov and his coldhearts or somebody else entirely. There were intruders inside a redoubt, and that meant it was chilling time.
ABANDONED ON the rocky shore, the crushed droid crackled with a surge of electricity from its emergency reserves and managed to feebly wiggle a couple of its legs on the downward side of the hill. As the loosened stone rolled away, the boulder resting on top of the machine shifted position slightly. Weakly, the droid nudged some additional stones away, and the huge boulder moved a little bit more….
Chapter Eighteen
Halfway down the smoky tunnel, the horses balked and refused to go any farther. Reluctantly, Doc took the coiled bullwhip from his side and lashed the animals to make them continue. The old man hated to do that, but it was a simple matter of the horses or the companions. Galloping away from the stinging lash, the horses disappeared into the billowing cloud.
Separating, the companions stayed to the walls to keep out of the way of any outgoing lead. Whatever was happening in the garage was in full swing, and they easily recognized the sound of their former weapons—the bark of the Steyr, the chatter of the Uzi and the unmistakable boom of the black-powder LeMat.
Just then, the fire alarm went silent and the companions quickly tucked their weapons under clothing a split second before a sticky white foam gushed from the ceiling to cover everything with a soft blanket of fire retardant. As the deluge stopped, several voices were raised in jubilation down the tunnel.
“Yee-haw, that got the nuke sucker!” a man called out in victory.
“Shut up! Thal, grab that sledgehammer and pound the son of a bitch flat!” a gruff voice commanded. “I never want to see this bastard thing walk again!”
“My pleasure, Petrov,” a man said in a low bass.
“Hey, where the fuck did those horses come from?” a woman demanded. “Did the doors open again?”
Softly, the companions could hear the frightened animals running about, bumping into what sounded like several parked wags, and the constant crackle of breaking glass.
“You were the last one inside, Rose,” Petrov growled accusingly, his voice fading away only to come back strong. “Nuking hell, it’s a feint! There’s somebody else inside!”
Knowing better than to rush toward an armed enemy, the companions stayed exactly where they were, waiting for the coldhearts to come to them. But then they heard a sizzling noise and a lead cylinder clattered onto the floor at the mouth of the tunnel.
Instantly, J.B. triggered both barrels of the sawed-off, the blast sending the pipe bomb rattling back into the foam-filled garage. A moment later, there was a resounding explosion and the sound of ripping metal.
Using the blast as cover, Ryan charged around the last corner of the tunnel and hit the
wet floor to roll behind the destroyed remains of a sleek sports car, the fiberglass chassis splintered into jagged pieces.
Rising into a crouch, the one-eyed-man saw four people frantically reloading blasters near the smoldering wreckage of a droid. Swinging up the longblaster, Ryan aimed and fired in one smooth motion. But the smoky air threw off his aim, and the largest man flinched as the big Magnum round only scored his cheek and smashed into the empty Peg-Board wall, blowing it apart. Retardant went flying everywhere.
“Bear!” a tiny blonde woman screamed, then brought up the Uzi to trigger several bursts. “Eat lead, ya nuking bastards!”
Ducking low once more, Ryan levered in a fresh cartridge, then fired at the clock on the wall. As the glass covering shattered, it drew the attention of the coldhearts, and the rest of the companions charged into the garage, taking cover behind windowless wags.
Kicking some foam-covered glass out of the way, Krysty dropped prone and tried to find the boots of the coldhearts through the maze of tires. But there were just too many wags in the way for her to see that far, not to mention the white mounds of drying retardant.
As a horse scampered past, J.B. crawled behind a civilian wag and cracked open the sawed-off to yank out the spent cartridges and shove in two fresh ones. Then he looked at Ryan. The two men nodded at each other, and J.B. triggered a blast directly into the ceiling, as Ryan stood and fired the Marlin once more. But the coldhearts were gone; only the sound of breaking glass revealed their movements behind the banks of speckled cars and trucks.
Stepping out from behind a tank, Charlie cut loose with both of his blasters, the copper-jacketed .38 rounds cutting down two of the horses.
Popping up, Mildred sent a long burst from her rapid-fire, the hardball rounds punching through the sheet-metal bodies of the civilian wags and ricocheting off the armored chassis of the APC.
“Give us back our blasters and stuff, and we’ll let you walk out of here alive!” Ryan shouted, standing for only a heartbeat to put a round into a pressurized tank of an acetylene-gas welding torch. A hole appeared in the container, but there was no explosion.
Shitfire, an empty! Ryan cursed.
“Come take it yourself!” Petrov answered, shooting the Steyr into a fluorescent light fixture. Breaking free from its moorings, the rack of glowing tubes came hurtling down to loudly crash on top of a sleek limousine, sending out a corona of sparkling debris.
Getting the bead on the female coldheart, Mildred started to shoot when a running horse got in the way. She withheld until it was past, and by then the coldheart was out of sight behind a Hummer dripping with chrome.
Creeping behind an SUV covered with military decals, Jak grunted as a shard of glass stabbed into his arm right through the deerskin jacket. Keeping both blasters in his hands, the albino teen used his teeth to extract the sliver and spit it onto the sticky floor. Then he shifted to the right and triggered both weapons in a brief flurry of mixed blasterfire, hammering one of the elevator doors. The soft lead rounds ricocheted off the predark steel, and there came an answering curse of pain from one of the hidden coldhearts.
Sneaking a peek around the tail fin of a civilian Chrysler wag, Ryan found himself locking gazes with Petrov, doing the exact same thing from behind a VW minivan. A split second passed, then they both drew weapons and fired. The S&W scattergun boomed, a hail of double-O buckshot hitting the Chrysler to blow off a fin and send a hubcap skittering away. Ryan answered with the Marlin, the Magnum round plowing completely through the lightweight VW minivan and coming out the other side, the denting sheet metal shoving Petrov onto the glass-covered floor. Bleeding from a dozen cuts, Petrov ran for better cover, firing the scattergun blindly as he darted between the parked wags.
Suddenly, everybody began shooting at the exact same time, metal crumpling and glass shattering, with ricochets going everywhere. Frightened horses whinnied at the exchange and tried to get out of the way by clambering over several wags to reach the relative safety of the fuel pump in the far corner.
As the barrage paused, Petrov pulled out another pipe bomb and lit the fuse. It took two tries because of the flame retardant drying on his hands, but finally he got it sizzling.
Recognizing that sound all too well, Ryan shouted, “Incoming!” and dived behind a U.S. Army 4x4 truck.
Whistling sharply, Petrov tossed the pipe bomb to Thal, who relayed it to Charlie, who whipped it forward, then ducked. The cylinder hit the littered ground hard, sliding through the broken shards to bounce off a tire to roll another ten feet before coming to a halt under the APC.
Slapping hands over their ears, the companions opened their mouths to save their eardrums. But the blast still sounded louder than doomsday, and the armored personnel carrier actually lifted a few inches off the concrete before crashing back down. The rear door burst open and out tumbled several skeletons, clutching rapid-fires and wearing military-grade body armor. Charlie made a grab for the armor and nearly lost his arm.
Smiling grimly as he reloaded his blaster, Jak paused and heard an unexpected noise from the direction of the access tunnel. Then a sucker-covered hand appeared around the corner, followed by a misshapen head.
“Stickies!” Jak shouted in warning, triggering both his weapons.
Spinning, Ryan snarled a virulent curse at the sight of the muties, then fired the Marlin from the hip. The first stickie jerked as the massive Magnum round took its life, but the hardball round continued onward to punch through two more stickies before stopping inside the fourth. However, as they dropped lifeless to the floor, a mob of stickies came charging out of the tunnel, waving their arms and hooting loudly, their primitive minds overexcited by the sound of the blasters.
Using both barrels. J.B. triggered the sawed-off, and two stickies went flying to hit the wall in bloody chunks. But more of them poured out of the tunnel in a seemingly endless stream.
Firing the LeMat into the hooting mob, Thal missed the first few times, the vicious recoil of the Civil War handcannon almost more than he could handle. Holstering the Colt, he got the LeMat under control and aced three more muties before they reached the rows of parked wags.
Well trained to defend themselves, two of the horses reared on hind legs to paw at the horrid muties, crushing the skull of a female and shattering the shoulder of a male. Then another horse screamed as a stickie grabbed its shoulder to rip off a strip of flesh. Bright red blood gushed from the injury, and the horse stumbled away as the happy stickie hooted in delight and began to feast.
Moving behind a pickup truck, Krysty sprayed a volley of 7.62-mm rounds into the stickie, fountains of crimson spurting from the line of holes across its chest.
Shooting through a windowless civilian wag, Rose used the SIG-Sauer to avoid attracting attention. Modified several times by J.B. over the years, the built-in sound suppressor—when it worked—reduced the muzzle-blast to a mere cough. Craning its neck for a look around, a stickie jerked from the impact of a 9-mm Parabellum round into its chest and went tumbling, only to reappear a second later, its left arm dangling limply, but otherwise unharmed.
Triggering the M-16 rapid-fire, Doc mercilessly hosed the heads of a pair of stickies, acing both the male and female.
“Have some of this!” Charlie snarled, alternately firing the hammerless S&W revolver and the Czech ZKR. A stickie had its face torn off, another merely wounded, and the rest escaped unharmed.
Whooping like a daredevil, Jak moved among the wags and trucks, both of his blasters booming death. Muties fell, pumping life fluids, and soon the albino teen was splattered with gore.
By now, the garage was almost completely clear of smoke, the constant flow of sterilized air thinning the dense clouds to a patchy haze. However, the drying foam still lay in a thick blanket across everything, and walking was a dangerous proposition. Every step meant a boot could slip, and a person would fall onto the layer of broken glass.
Fumbling to insert a clip into the Steyr longblaster, Petrov worked the bolt jus
t in time to shoot an advancing stickie in the chest. Hooting loudly, the mutie threw itself at the man, but Petrov neatly pivoted away from the rush and fired another 7.62-mm round directly into the back of its head. Blood and teeth hit the floor a split second before the aced mutie did, the last hoot cut off in the middle.
Dropping a spent clip from her rapid-fire, Mildred reached for another, then realized that she was too slow. A stickie was upon her, both of the killing hands reaching for her face. With no other recourse, the physician rammed the barrel of the assault rifle forward like a spear, the Russian steel stabbing deep into the mutie’s belly, invoking a plaintive howl. Uncaring, Mildred twisted the shaft to enlarge the wound before yanking it free. As the stickie stupidly began to examine the wound, Mildred quickly reloaded, worked the arming bolt and put a burst of rounds into its face, blowing away most of the forehead.
Drawing his blaster, Ryan fired three quick rounds into a stickie starting to climb straight up the wall. As it died, the creature let go with its hands, but the sucker-covered feet stayed attached. It flopped backward to hang upside down, pale blood dripping onto the broken glass and cars below.
Holstering the LeMat, Thal switched to the Colt Python and began to fire steadily at the companions and the stickies.
Catching a brief glimpse of her med bag, Mildred almost rushed toward the big man, but a stickie blocked her way, and she wasted precious seconds acing it.
Jumping into the back of a pickup truck to avoid the deadly hands of a stickie, Krysty swung the stock of her longblaster and smashed it in its face. Hooting in pain, the mutie turned to shamble away, and the woman ruthlessly shot it in the back of the head.
Snapping the sawed-off shut, J.B. crouched behind a sleek sports car, watching the floor. As soon as he saw sucker-covered feet, he stood to fire both barrels, one to the chest, the other to the face. The stickie staggered backward, a tattered ruin. But three more stickies arched around the frantically reloading man and took off among the rows of windowless cars, constantly hooting.
