by James Axler
The camera swung wildly through 180 degrees, pointing at the ground, its shots very jerky and fast.
"He's heading back here," said Ryan. "Had enough. Poor fucker can't take any more of what happened to his neighborhood."
The picture went blank, and J.B. moved toward the television, thinking it was over. But it wasn't.
Not quite.
A face swam into approximate focus. The face of a mortally ill, dying man, still recognizable as Don Haggard, but drawn and yellow and thin. Dark seams furrowed his face from his hose to the corners of his mouth, and the eyes were veiled with a dreadful fatigue. He wore a plaid shirt that was moist with vomit and what looked like drying blood.
The voice was hoarse and labored. The tape ran on with long pauses as the man seemed to fight to remember how to speak.
"Donald Haggard here of West Lowellton. Don't know the date no more. Been six days since Peg passed away. Poor old dear been sleeping more and finally slipped from me while I slept. I got the sickness like everyone. Been shitting so much I can't keep me clean no more. Lost all my dignity. Puked blood today. Can't be soon 'fore I join my darling. Guess our boys are long dead. Hope they died quicker and easier than folks round here. Conceived in fucking liberty... We can't hallow or consecrate this ground..." He was overtaken by a coughing fit, his body shaking. "Last full measure of devotion... It shall not perish from the earth. No, no, no."
"Turn it off, J.B.," said Ryan.
Don Haggard's voice was weakening. "Heard knocking a whiles back, but I couldn't... wouldn't have... not going out again." The man staggered to his feet, swaying to and fro, pointing a finger at the camera. "Do you feel fucking lucky, punk?" he said, to the bewilderment of two people a century later.
That was the last he said.
Then there was the noise of someone being violently sick Ч a choking, tearing sound that went on and on until J.B. pushed the Fast Forward button again. Don Haggard never reappeared, though the tape ran right on through to its end and automatically rewound itself.
"Going to take it?" asked the Armorer.
"No. Like robbing a grave. Not right. Leave it here."
They switched off everything, gently pulling the door shut and climbing out into the cool of the late evening. Ryan lowered the exit hatch, swinging the wheel-lock on it, making sure that no casual predator would disturb the last resting place of Don and Peggy Haggard of West Lowellton, Louisiana.
They returned to the Adelphi Cinema without incident and rejoined Jak Lauren in good time for the last fire-fight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ryan was impressed with the regimented hold that the fourteen-year-old boy had over his small army. Jak had ordered silence, and that was what he got. Each man and woman understood his or her role in the assault; they oiled and greased their weapons, and carefully wrapped rags around them to prevent noise. A few of the men checked the captured swampwag to make sure the steering was smooth.
The heavy casks of napalm were loaded into the rear of the buggy, the tops having been painstakingly cut off by hand. Old blankets were wadded between them to stop them from rolling and clattering.
Under the direction of J. B. Dix, grens were wired to various points around the swampwag, their pins secured with loops of fishing line, cut to an agreed length of 120 yards.
Just after midnight, they were ready to go.
* * *
Baron Tourment hadn't yet returned to the cellar. Bound and helpless, the girls lay in total darkness with only the rhythmic clunking of the nearby ice machine and the distant chattering of one of the elevators to break the stillness.
They talked for a while. Krysty tried to keep the younger girl's spirits up, telling her that Ryan and Doc and the others would surely come for them. Eventually, around midnight, both of them managed to fall asleep.
* * *
The gears set in neutral, the buggy, pushed by teams of fighters, rolled on its massive tires. The tall woman with the jagged scar across her neck sat at the controls. She was reputedly the best driver in the small army, and the success or failure of the first part of the plan depended upon her skill and nerve and timing.
Finn walked with two of the older men, all three of them carrying flamers. Tanks of propellant, with a nozzle like a garden hose, were supported across their shoulders by a web of faded canvas strapping.
"You sure that slope's steep enough at the front?" asked J. B. Dix.
"Yeah. There's a hill out of sight of the motel. We get it there and then let her go. By the time they see it coming, speed'll be well up. Too fucking late to do much. Leah jumps, and Finn and his men get to work."
It took them close on two hours, with stops for frequent pauses for everyone to gather breath. Even Doc insisted on taking his share of heaving at the lumbering vehicle, though it nearly exhausted him. His ebony sword stick was in his belt, the massive Le Mat pistol, over two hundred years old, in its holster.
* * *
Krysty dreamed that she lay in an archaic wooden wagon, with a fluttering top of white material. It was set amongst a grove of green-leaved sycamores, with sunbaked fields all around it. There were men, women and children, hunkered down in the grass behind the wagon, in old-fashioned clothes. The women in long cotton dresses and poke bonnets. Dark suits for the men. By another wagon she saw four men and a boy, loading antique blasters, laughing as they did so. Somehow, though there was no enemy in sight, Krysty knew that a battle was about to go down. A bloody firefight against a superior force.
* * *
"Two-seventeen," said Ryan Cawdor, angling his chron to catch the stray moonbeams that filtered through the trees. From far below they heard noise around the Best Western Snowy Egret: men calling out orders; laughter; a shrill scream, followed by more laughter.
Leah stood quietly by the swampwag, dwarfed by the wheels, her scarred face in shadow. She pulled on leather gauntlets, brushing her hair back from her eyes. Nearly a foot shorter, Jak Lauren stood beside her, his own hair tied into a silvery ponytail.
"Jump and roll once you're sure it's on course. And get the fuck out. Finn and flamers are going to be right behind. Is that okay, Leah?"
"Sure. I won't let you down, Jak." Leah looked across at Ryan. "Won't let anyone down."
She swung up, seating herself, waving a gloved hand to show her readiness. There was the faint sound of metal on metal as she released the brake. Some of the men set their shoulders to the back of the swampwag, and it began to move forward, gaining speed on the slope.
"Go, Finn," called Ryan, urging them on. The buggy was going faster than they'd guessed, and he saw suddenly that the three men with the flamers were going to have a serious problem getting close enough if the grens didn't do their stuff. The thin lines paid out behind the swampwag, each held by one of Jak's people.
Lauren led them down the hill after the swampwag, slowing as he reached the edge of the covering trees. Ryan patted him on the shoulder, turning to J.B. and Doc and six men he'd picked earlier,
"Going round the back, Whitey. See you inside. Good luck."
And they were gone. They cut to the left along a side road that would wind about and bring them to the rear entrance of the motel, through its abandoned parking lot, by the shell of the swimming pool.
It was surprisingly late before any of the baron's sec men saw the swampwag noiselessly hurtling toward them. Ryan heard the first shouts and a crackle of spasmodic fire. He watched the big buggy move within a hundred yards of the main entrance, driven straight as an arrow by Leah.
"Now. Jump, girl," he said, knowing there was no way she could hear.
Bullets sparked off the front of the vehicle, whining into the night. The searchlights jerked and danced as they sought the rushing attackers. Finn and his two comrades were caught and held by the beams, frozen in the stark light.
"Now, J.B.," said Ryan, carefully aiming the Heckler & Koch. The Armorer stood in the center of the blacktop, his legs spread, the Uzi braced against his hip. Both men
opened fire simultaneously, their guns on continuous burst. Their aim was good enough, even at that range, to smash both searchlights instantly. There was a tinkling of glass, and wounded men cried out as they fell. The front of the motel was immediately plunged into darkness.
Then everything started to happen more or less as they'd planned it.
But Leah's death hadn't been part of the plan. She was supposed to jump. Instead, she stayed at the steering controls, making sure that the swampwag hit smack in the center of the main entrance. It crashed with an enormous metallic crumpling noise, half overturning, spilling its load of napalm. The impact was so tremendous that some of the grens were jerked free of their mountings, with only two remaining in place.
Ryan saw the crash, watching as Leah's body was thrown high in the air, arms and legs like a disjointed doll's. She hit the motel with crushing force, sliding down the wall and lying still.
"Fireblast!" he swore. "She didn't..."
The grens went off, almost together, splattering the napalm over a wide area but failing to ignite it. J.B. had warned that the sticky gas might have lost some of its combustibility; that was why Finn was there as back-up. Now he was needed.
Although Ryan and the others should have been moving to the rear of the Best Western, they waited to see what would happen. If the flamers didn't work, then the whole attack was going to fail.
"Come on, Finn, you old bastard," Ryan muttered.
The firefight was gaining momentum. Bullets hissed and snapped all around the front of the building as the Baron's sec army came tumbling out to repel the attack. Jak Lauren was leading a group of fighters down the hill, darting from side to side to use what little cover there was. All along the front of the fortress, picking their way through the sticky, stinking mess of napalm, the sec men were gathering their strength.
One of the men beside Finnegan fell soundlessly, shot through the head, his blood and brains splashing over the road. They were a scant sixty yards or so from the wrecked swampwag, and bullets started to bracket them. J.B. had wanted to get closer.
"Fuck that!" shouted Finn, dropping to his knees, opening the valve and pressing the ignite button. He pressed it a second time when nothing happened. At his side, one of Jak's men also knelt, fumbling with the controls. A spray of lead centered on his chest, and he went toppling on his back, the flamer falling limply from his dying grasp.
Finn pressed the button a third time.
Ryan held his breath.
* * *
Krysty awoke, tugged from her dream. Straining her exceptional hearing, she caught the muffled roar of an explosion. And shouting. A lot of shouting.
"Lori," she called. "Wake up, Lori. They're here. Wake up!"
* * *
The jet of flame, dripping beads of golden fire all along its magical length, struck the center of the ruined swampwag, playing over it, instantly igniting the hundreds of gallons of napalm.
Finn jumped to one side, releasing the main control of the flamer, burying his face in his hands at the cataclysmic explosion. Jak Lauren and his group stopped in their tracks, shrinking back from the inferno that raged outside the motel. The sec guards were destroyed in the blink of an eye, converted from fighting men to dancing puppets, tugged by strings of fire. Their thin, helpless screams were drowned by the ferocious roar of the flames. The entire front of the building caught fire, and lakes of smoking crimson spread inside through shattered windows and doors. In less than one minute, the whole place was ablaze.
The men with Ryan and J.B. stood and gaped. Night became dazzling day. The shooting stopped for a few moments, replaced by the noise of the fire and the screeching of hundreds of wild birds, erupting from the trees all around. Ryan saw a great slim-necked white bird with an enormous wingspan flying majestically away over the burning motel.
"Now," he said, breaking the others from their shocked contemplation. "Come on. To the back."
* * *
Baron Tourment had been sleeping, his arm resting across the hips of a slim Cajun girl. Her tanned body was covered with bites and scratches, and she had slithered into a merciful, drugged sleep.
Mephisto burst into the room, his clothes crumpled, a blaster in his hand.
"They're here! For fuck's sake, Baron, get up and fight, or run!"
"Who? The one-eyed man?"
"Don't know. Move this slut outta the way." He pulled the girl to the floor; moaning, she resumed her slumber. "Bombs. Fire-sprays. Blasters. It's a fucking war out there."
Tourment reached for his braces and buckled them on while Mephisto outlined what had been happening.
"Whole place is burning. Must be twenty dead. Could be more. It's bad. Real bad, Baron."
Tourment hitched on his belt, with the twin pistols in it. Stub-gripped Ruger GP-110s, a matched pair of silver-plated revolvers that had been taken from one of the gun stores in downtown Lafayette years back.
"How many out there?"
Mephisto shook his head. His own customized M-16, with its ornate cockerel's head, dangled from his right hand, almost as if he'd forgotten he was still holding it. "Don't know. Plenty. Thought I saw the snow wolf."
"And the man with one eye?"
"Who?"
Tourment reached for his trembling sec boss and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. "You heard me, offal! Was there a man there with only one-eye? He's the one to be feared. I know it. I've seen it."
"Didn't... didn't see him. Time's racing, Baron. The place is lost. Got to get out."
"Side way, canoes," said the giant black, striding to the door of his suite. "Get the two women and bring 'em."
"Too late for that," said Mephisto, his voice rising until, it was almost a hysterical scream. "Don't you... it's fucking over. We lost. One fucking bang and a damburst of fire, and we're done."
* * *
Krysty lay still, resting, harvesting the layers of calmness. Knowing that if the motel was under attack by Ryan, then it would not be long before Baron Tourment, or one of his sec men, remembered them and came looking for them. That could be the moment when her special powers might be most needed. Lori, at her side, lay still, whistling to herself to keep her spirits up.
* * *
Half a dozen swampwags were already rolling around the back of the blazing building, with sec men still clambering into them, ready to run. Exchanging fire with Ryan's party, all of them fell dead, with only a single casualty in the attackers group.
"Blow the buggies?" asked one of Jak's men.
"No. You'll need 'em after this is done."
"You figure we're winning?" asked another of them as they neared a large rear entrance.
"Yeah. Leah gave us better than we'd hoped for. When this is finished, you ought to build her a bitching great statue and bring your children to look at it every fucking anniversary."
There was a foot of stagnant slimy green water at the bottom of the pool. It reflected the flames that were already beginning to break through the roof of the Best Western. One of the sec men came sprinting around the corner of the motel, heading toward them, clutching a suitcase. He saw them but didn't check his stride, figuring them for his own comrades.
"Mine," said Ryan, putting a single round from the H&K through the man's neck. It kicked him back, his feet flying up in front of him as though a wire had been pulled around his neck.
"Rat abandoning the sinking ship," commented Doc Tanner.
The door was unguarded and unbolted. To their left they heard shooting. Their nostrils filled with the acrid stink of poisonous smoke. The speed with which the fire spread was startling. Ryan realized that he hadn't really taken into account the way a dried-out hundred-year-old husk of a building would blaze. The plan had been even better than he could have dreamed. A single crushing blow.
"All we gotta do is find the girls and get clear," he said. "Whitey figured the basement. Best get to it 'fore we all go up."
* * *
Out front, Jak Lauren had managed to stop crying. S
eeing his father's hideously mutilated corpse dangling from the flagpole, like some obscene trophy of battle, had created an ocean of grief and anger within him. In his fourteen years, the boy had seen enough killing to last most people a full lifetime. But for his father to die now, with victory suddenly and magically within their grasp Ч that was bitter.
The tears lasted only a minute or two before his iron self-control returned and he led his people in a screaming charge. Taking the firefight into the burning building, they massacred anyone around. He used a .357 Magnum with a satin nickel finish, spare ammunition rattling in the pockets of his torn jacket. So far only a half dozen of his group had gone down, compared to more than two-thirds of the Baron's defending sec men.
One of the gaudy sluts came running toward the boy, her mouth open in a scream of horror and agony, burning napalm dappling her naked shoulders and back. Jak steadied his right wrist with his left hand and shot her carefully between the eyes.
He was greatly tempted to stop and lower his father's body from the pole. But that would take time and men, and both were vital to maintain the momentum of the attack. What had been his father was no longer around. It didn't seem to matter what happened to his dismembered corpse.
* * *
Krysty managed a smile as Ryan came kicking in through the cellar door, the G-12 raking the room, ready to butcher anyone there.
"Hi, lover," she said.
"Hi. How's it gone?"
"Could have gone a whole lot worse ifТn you'd left it till tomorrow. That Tourment is one evil fucker. And his sec boss isn't any better."
Doc had rushed straight to Lori, and laying down his sword stick, embraced her while she wept. J.B. pushed past him, the Tekna knife in his hand. The keen edge parted the cords that bound the girl to the table; he turned and released Krysty the same way.
