by James Axler
Keeping careful track of the rise and fall of the clicks of the rad counter, Ryan and J.B. directed the companions past the lingering death of the invisible rad zone. Once the clicks returned to the normal level of background rad, Ryan called a halt on the crest of a low sweeping hillock. The elevation gave them a commanding view of the landscape. Even in the dappled light from the moving clouds, they could see there was nobody around for miles in every direction.
With the butt of the Steyr resting on an outthrust hip, Ryan stood guard while the companions watered their tired horses. Rummaging in a pocket, J.B. pulled out his recently acquired compass and waited for the needle to settle down. But it kept spinning about madly, occasionally pausing to then start rotating in the reverse direction.
“Aw, to hell with it,” J.B. said in frustration, tucking the device away. “There’s just too much crap in the air from the clouds to get a clean mag reading.”
Spooning some spaghetti from a MRE pack, Mildred caught the motion, but said nothing. J.B. had been able to trade one off a baron’s brother in exchange for a gren. At the time, it seemed like a bargain, but now she could see in the Armorer’s face how much he wanted that gren back.
“Those really work?” Jak asked.
“Absolutely,” Mildred said, shoveling in another mouthful of pasta and sauce. “Oh, a Boy Scout compass, or something from the military would be a lot better,” she admitted, “but then, half the world was explored with a magnetic needle resting on a piece of cork that floated in a bowl of water.”
Rubbing the muscular neck of his beast, the teen made a face of total disbelief.
“It is true, Jak,” Doc added, lowering his canteen and wiping his mouth clean with a linen handkerchief that had seen better days. “In the Hung Dynasty of ancient China, a magnetic needle was worth the owner’s weight in gold. That would roughly translated today into, say, twice your bodyweight of live brass.”
“That much?” Krysty asked, watching something flying through the distant clouds to the west. Mother Gaia, that looked like a flock of screamwings! Thankfully, the deadly winged muties were heading in another direction. Had to be a fresh chill because they were moving even faster than usual.
“Trader always said that the only thing constant was change,” Ryan said, biting off a chunk of jerky from their Two-Son ville supplies. “Nowadays, a hammer is more valuable than one of those microscopes I read about.”
Noticing Krysty’s posture, J.B. pulled out his longeye. He had found the old Navy telescope in a pawn shop in the place they called Zero City, and it was in perfect condition. About the size of your fist, it extended to over a full yard in length, and was much better than even binocs. Pushing back his fedora, J.B. began to sweep the horizon, but all he could see was blackness. Wait a sec, what the frag was that? he thought.
“The center is chaos, the circle cannot hold,” Doc spoke softly in an odd singsong manner that meant he was quoting something. Using both hands, the time traveler unwrapped a package of cheese and crackers from the open MRE in the pocket of his frock coat. The cheese was a dull gray in color, but since that was its natural color he paid it no special attention. The predark military machine wanted the food for its troops to be nourishing, and long-lasting, but apparently nobody gave a damn if it was appetizing.
“Stop misquoting William Blake,” Mildred retorted, licking the spoon clean and then stuffing it into the empty pouch. “Besides, we have miles to go before we sleep.”
“And who is quoting whom now, madam?”
“Stuff it, ya old coot.”
“Heads up,” J.B. announced, collapsing the antique telescope down to its compact size. “We’re not alone. There’s a ville to the northwest of here, about forty miles away.”
Ripping off one last chew, Ryan stuffed the rest of the jerky into a shirt pocket. “Let’s go see if we can barter for a night under a roof. We have enough black powder to trade.”
Moving off the hillock, the companions started for the distant town, staying in a loose formation so that anything that attacked they would be able to strike all together.
THE CLOUDS WERE THINNING and the moon was starting to dip behind the curve of the world by the time the companions galloped over a swell in the ground and got a direct bead of the ville. It was a big place, with a yellowish glow of torches coming from behind a high wall built of huge rectangular blocks. The gate was small, but several guard towers were spaced evenly along the perimeter.
Easing on the reins, Ryan scowled. They had to have a lot of enemies to erect such a strong defense. Or else mebbe there were drinkers in the area. Either way, not very good news.
As the companions got closer, they found signs of crude farming in the surrounding land. But the crops were stunted and scraggly, clearly showing there was something wrong with the soil in spite of the lush grass spreading out in every direction.
“Lots of plants grow in places where food can’t,” Krysty said, riding with one hand on the reins. The other hand rested on the rapidfire lying across her lap. “Could be a mutie form of grass.”
“Also means this part of the Zone is a prime location for drinkers to hide under,” J.B. added, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “Stay razor for any large clumps of grass.”
“And if we encounter the infamous subterranean mutie?” Doc asked. “Or another of those triple cursed jellies?”
With a rude snort, Ryan answered. “Start throwing grens,” he said, “and run for your bastard life.”
As the companions approached the ville, they could see that cutting through the fields was the remains of a predark road that led directly to the front gate. The surface was cracked in spots, with a lot of potholes filled with loose stones as a makeshift repair. However, it was serviceable, and easy walking for the horses.
Staying alert, the companions kept off the road and rode their beasts along the berm. The uneven ground slowed them considerably, but bitter experience had taught them that anything that seemed too good to be true usually was. A repaired road often meant boobies hidden under the predark asphalt, dead falls, landmines or worse.
Reaching blaster range, the companions broke the canter of their horses into a trot, then proceeded along in a slow walk. But they always kept moving. A sitting target was just as bad as rushing headlong into the unknown.
Craning his neck, Ryan could see that the wall around the ville wasn’t made of stone blocks, but was a line of predark trucks. Or rather, just the trailers. The cabs that pulled the trailers were gone, but the huge metal boxes sat end-to-end to form an angular barrier. The metal sides were streaked with layers of old rust, the open area under the trailers packed solid with predark debris, broken sidewalk slabs, bricks, wag engines and similar trash. It was an imposing tonnage of debris that would be impossible to move without some major explos charges and an army of men with shovels.
As the companions got closer, there were unmistakable signs of old battles on the trailers: blaster holes, scorch marks from Molotovs, gray streaks from ricochets and such. Loose sand was trickling from a few of the small cracks in the trailers, while the larger rents had been patched with sheets of old iron.
Ryan and J.B. glanced at each other and nodded in appreciation. It was triple-smart for the locals to pack the trailers with sand from the nearby desert. The stuff was easy to obtain, there was a limitless supply, and the more the trailers weighed, the harder it would be for an invader to get through them.
“Good design,” Jak said in grudging admiration.
Checking the draw on his SIG-Sauer, Ryan was forced to agree. This wasn’t a ville, it was a fort, as big and well-protected as Front Royal, his home back in the east. Then the startling similarities of the towers behind the wall hit him hard. Fireblast, he thought, they were positioned in almost exactly the same formation as those back in Front Royal. How could that be?
“Ah, lover…?” Krysty said softly, putting a wealth of questions into the single word.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Ryan replie
d. “Might just be a coincidence. Most people made crossbows after skydark for the same reasons—they were easy to build, and you can use the arrows over and over again.”
“Great minds think alike, and all that,” J.B. added in agreement.
“Make that great mind, singular,” Doc rumbled in a somber tone.
For once, Mildred agreed with the old man. In her travels with the others, she had witnessed far too many examples of Carl Jung’s theory of the “group subconscious mind of humanity” for there to be any other explanation, in her opinion. All living things were bound together. It was only people who refused to accept the idea that life shared its dreams. Either that, or there was an unknown force in the world guiding everything and everybody along secret paths. Which was clearly ridiculous.
Easing their mounts to a stop just outside of arrow range, the companions let the animals catch their breaths for a few minutes. This also gave the sec men a chance to see them first, and spread the word. There was no reason to startle the guards and start a fight. Spilling blood wasn’t a good way to start negotiations with the local baron.
Walking their mounts closer, the companions studied the gate. It was very impressive. The broad gap between two of the trailers had been bridged by a concrete lintel to form an arch. Set below that was a formidable gate made of the doors taken off wags and welded together into a single homogenous slab. It was as lumpy as oatmeal, and looked as impregnable as a redoubt blast door.
“A door of doors,” Mildred muttered. “I wonder if their baron is a poet?”
Just then, a bright blue light of an alcohol lantern appeared, moving across the top of the wall and starting to come their way. To the east, dawn was rising. But the shadows were still thick across the world, and the bobbing lantern moved along like a lost star.
“We’ll soon find out,” Ryan replied, walking his horse a little bit closer.
Footsteps were heard, and a man carrying the lantern appeared at the edge of the metal wall. Wearing loose clothing and a leather vest, the sec man had a tremendous beard, pleated into two strands. As well as the lantern, he was also carrying a bolt-action longblaster, with a hand on the trigger.
Tromping over to the last trailer, the sec man stopped near a crude set of tremendous hinges that supported the colossal gate.
“Advance and give the password!” the sec man shouted down into the darkness.
“Sorry, don’t know it,” Ryan answered as his horse shifted its hooves on the ground. “We’re strangers, rists, looking for a place to stay tonight.”
“Yeah? What kind of jack ya got?”
“Brass, four rounds!”
“Packed with dirt, probably.” The guard sneered in disdain. “Useless as tits on a turd.”
In a smooth move, Ryan pulled the SIG-Sauer. “Be glad to show you,” he offered in a voice of stone.
Shaking the reins, Krysty walked her horse closer between the two men. “What is the name of this place?” she added loudly.
Slowly, both of the men eased their aggressive stances. But their hands didn’t stray far from their blasters.
“This be Broke Neck,” the sec man replied with a touch of pride. “And where you folks from?”
“All over,” Ryan answered truthfully. “Here and there, north and south.”
“Yeah? A real son of Trader, are ya?” the man said, chuckling.
“We traveled with him some,” J.B. replied over the nasal snorting of his horse.
There was a pause as a second guard appeared on top of the wall. The clean-shaven man was holding a loaded crossbow. The two sec men held a short conference.
“Now that might be flat-rock, or it could be a stretch,” the first sec man said, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“Either way, that’s a lot of iron for a bunch of pilgrims,” the clean-shaven sec man said.
“That’s because we’re not pilgrims,” Ryan answered, slightly annoyed. “You folks interested in doing biz, or should we keep moving?”
The muffled footsteps on top of the trailer got louder as one of the sec men walked to the very edge and angled his lantern to make it shine on the companions. “Yeah, yeah, just keep your jets cool, rist,” the sec man said gruffly. “I was just…Black dust, ya only got one eye! Clem, look! One eye, by thunder!”
The second guard rushed over. “It’s Ryan!” he whispered in shock. “Gotta be! Look there, one of them is dark, another pale, she’s got red hair, and that guy is wearing glass on his face. Never did understand that part before.”
Already alert, the companions instantly drew their assortment of blasters, snapping off safeties and working bolts without the slightest regard of being seen. Instantly, both guards leveled their weps.
Then the man with the beard slowly lowered his rifle and placed it on the wall. “Easy there, folks, easy now. We don’t want any blood split between us.”
“And what if my name is Ryan?” the Deathlands warrior asked, the SIG-Sauer tight in his grip.
“Then the baron will wanna talk to you right away,” the other sec man replied, resting the crossbow on a shoulder. “We’ve been expecting ya for a long time, but thought you’d be coming from the south in the direction of the ocean gulf.”
Mildred lifted both eyebrows at that, but said nothing. The rest of the companions followed suit. What was going on here? There was only one possible answer that made any sense.
“Seems like your doomie made a mistake,” the physician stated.
The two sec men frowned at that. “Baron Harmond don’t make many bad calls,” he stated gruffly. “More likely you’re lying.”
“But even if ya are, don’t matter,” the other man added brusquely. “The baron wants to meet anybody with just one eye. If you’re Ryan, good. If not, we can offer ya haven from the coldhearts hunting folks like you.”
Haven. There was a word the companions hadn’t heard, or been offered, for a very long time. Aside from Two-Son ville to the south, their reception in the Zone had been poor at best.
“We accept your offer of haven,” Krysty said, her hair flexing gently around her shoulders. If there was any danger here, she couldn’t sense it. But then, when dealing with a doomie, anything was possible.
“No offense, but I have never heard of a doomie baron before,” Mildred shouted up to the guard.
“No offense taken. Baron Harmond is prob the only one around.” The bearded sec man advanced a step, then lowered the lantern for a better look. “Your name Doc?” he asked.
Puzzled at first, Mildred started to speak, then realized the connection. Doc… “Close enough,” she acknowledged warily. “But I prefer Mildred.”
“Fair enough,” the sec man muttered, looking her over closely. “Funny, you don’t seem frozen to me.”
That comment caught all of the companions by surprise. Way back in the twentieth century, Mildred had gone into the hospital for a simple operation, but there had been serious complications and the doctors had desperately attempted to save her life by using an experimental cryogenic freezer unit. The device had worked, and Mildred awoke a hundred years later, alive and healthy, but nearly a full century after the near-total destruction of civilization.
“Well, best get inside, there’s muties out at night,” the smooth-faced sec man stated. “And they love to eat people, if they can’t get at our pigs.”
“Pigs?” Jak asked, amused.
Shifting the crossbow, the man shrugged. “They go craz for them. They’ll pass up a dying man to steal a pig. Damnedest thing ever seen.”
“Something special about your pigs?”
“Well, they’re not muties, iffen that is what ya mean.”
“I hate pigs,” Doc muttered softly, his expression unreadable.
Turning toward the ville, the bearded man cupped a hand to his face. “Open ’er up, Charlie! This be Ryan!”
If there was a reply, it couldn’t be heard. But soon there came the sound of a sputtering engine and the massive gate began to sluggishly move in je
rks until there was a wide enough passage for a single horse and rider to traverse.
Holstering his piece, Ryan took the lead and headed his horse inside, his every muscle tense and ready for betrayal. A doomie, a human mutie. Sometimes they could read minds as well as get glimpses of the future. Of course, once a person knew what the future was, since it hadn’t happened yet, they could try to change it. So the main power of a doomie was keeping their visions quiet and working in secret. But this Baron Harmond had broadcast his visions to his sec men. Did the rest of the ville also know, or were they kept in the dark? he wondered.
As the rest of the companions rode through the formidable gate, Ryan glanced sideways and saw that J.B. had a hand buried in his munitions bag. Any trouble from the locals and that gate would be coming down louder than skydark. Past the gate was a wide strip of concrete that looked recent. The surface was roughly smooth, but seemed to sparkle in spots, casting tiny rainbows from the lanterns held by the armed sec men.
“Careful of that glass,” a sec man shouted. “Even if your horses are shod, that’ll cut them bad.”
Thankful of the warning, the companions steered clear of the studded concrete. It seemed a poor barrier to stop horses. But what else could a field of glass be for?
“Escaping slaves,” Doc stated, resting a hand on the LeMat, answering the unspoken question.
“Attacking muties,” Jak countered, shaking the reins on his horse. The mare softly nickered in reply as if agreeing with her master.
Irregular rows of adobe buildings rose in the murky shadows past the lanterns, only a few windows were lit. Most of the wooden shutters were closed tight. There was the smell of frying onions and wood smoke in the chill morning air. Filling the sky, orange-glowing clouds rumbled ominously, a streak of purple zigzagged across the heavens and sheet lighting flashed somewhere in the murky distance.
“Must have been a lot of hard work laying out all of that glass,” Ryan said, the statement poised as a question.
“Bet your ass,” a fat sec man boasted, a revolver shoved into his belt. “And sharp enough to rip the tires off any two-wheeler.”
