Perdition Valley

by James Axler

  A reasonable enough explanation, even if it did sound a little rehearsed. “Get a lot of trouble from bikers?” J.B. asked, guiding his mount around the unusual trap. Most villes had pitfalls or sandbag nests for defenders to shoot from in safety. But this felt like something done as protection for a specific enemy.

  “Nope, never even seen one,” the man stated casually, starting along a dirt street. “This way, folks. We already sent word to the baron that you’re coming.”

  “Thought was doomie,” Jak said, impulsively scratching at the bandage on his head. The wound had to be nearly healed from the way it was itching constantly.

  “Everybody sleeps, rist,” another sec man replied with a touch of anger at the implied insult.

  “They’ve never seen a bike,” Krysty whispered to Ryan with a lot of meaning.

  “No need to convince me after that freezer remark,” Ryan answered, looking over the sleepy ville. The people were starting to stir. As window shutters swung open, the startled men and women began to point and stare at the companions. “Harmond is a doomie for sure, and, it seems, a triple-damn good one.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s a good baron like your cousin in Front Royal, or Baron O’Connor back in Two-Son.”

  “You can load that into a blaster,” Ryan said in total agreement as the strong resemblance of the ville to Front Royal was suddenly explained. The doomie had to have seen the ville, either in the mind of somebody passing through, or with the “long sight” that some of the mental muties possessed.

  Suddenly the engine started once more and the gates began to ponderously rumble closed.

  “Okay, we walk from here,” Ryan ordered the others, sliding off his mount. “The horses are tired enough after that hard ride.”

  Besides, we’ll need the horses to be rested if we have to race out of here with a mob of sec men coming after us, Ryan added privately. Exactly how much did this Baron Harmond know? Was the existence of the redoubts still a secret? Did he know why they were empty, and where the predark soldiers had gone? What about Dean, and The Trader? There were a lot of mysteries that a friendly doomie could answer. Trouble was, most of the mental muties were borderline crazy, and a lot of their answers didn’t make any fragging sense. Like calling Mildred Doc and saying that J.B. had glass eyes. The answers could only be understood after you knew the truth.

  Following after the fat sec man with the lantern, the companions led their horses through the wide streets, looking hard for any sign of recent combat or public executions. But Broke Neck seemed a peaceful enough ville. Windows were open on the second floor of most buildings, babies were crying, dogs barking, roosters crowing and the smell of cooking food became stronger every minute, until the stomachs of the companions rumbled in sympathy.

  Much of the ville was like any other they had seen over the year: leather-working shop, couple taverns, one big blacksmith, an area for making more adobe bricks, a distillery for brewing alcohol and a fletcher who was already hard at work making arrows, a young assistant close by watching closely to learn the venerable craft. Blasters took a lot of tech to make and maintain. Arrows only needed skilled hands, some long wood soaked in salt water, glue made from boiled bones, chicken feathers for fletching, sharp stones for arrowheads and a ville was ready for combat. According to Doc and Mildred, most of the world had been conquered by folks using only bows and arrows, and the ancient weapon was most definitely making a big comeback in the Deathlands.

  Every minute, more and more people were coming out of their homes to watch the companions pass by. A frowning wrinklie lifted a rock to throw, but a neighbor forced her to put it down. An Indian shaman wearing only a loincloth stepped out of a leather tent to bow at the procession. Ryan and Krysty exchanged glances at that, but had no idea what it meant.

  Going through an open area covered with loose gravel, the companions passed a predark fountain that was dribbling water, a whipping post for criminals and then a predark bank. The granite building was obviously the barracks for the sec men. A sandbag wall protected the front entrance, every window was covered with thick wooden shutters, gunports covered the walls, and rusty barbed wire hung off the roof in endless coils as armed guards walked around on patrol.

  “This is it,” the fat sec man announced, coming to a halt at a flight of marble stairs. Worn and cracked, the steps led directly to the front of the building.

  Stroking his horse’s neck, Ryan looked the place over carefully. The portico of the bank was supported by a row of granite columns, and the front door seemed to be solid bronze, the shiny surface only slightly marred by a couple of gray streaks from bullet ricochets.

  “Welcome to Broke Neck,” a barrel-chested man said, stepping out from behind one of the pillars. “Obey the rules, and you’ll leave alive.”

  The fellow was huge, both arms hanging slightly away from the chest from the thick layers of muscle. His eyes were hard diamonds set into concrete, but the rough features were softened with sideburns and a droopy mustache. The clothing was patched, and the locally made boots were new. A sawed-off scattergun rode in a holster on his hip as if it was a handblaster. There were only a few 12-gauge cartridges for the blaster in the loops of the belt, but they gleamed with protective oil. There was a long knife on his belt, and another jutted from the top of his left boot.

  “Fair enough,” Ryan said, brushing back his wealth of black hair. “You the baron?”

  The crowd and the sec men smiled at that, and the big man laughed. “Shitfire, no! I’m just the sec chief, Glen Bateman.” He jerked a thumb over a shoulder. “Baron Harmond will be here in a minute. Been expecting you all night.”

  Tightening his jaw, Ryan and the others exchanged glances at that, but refrained from comment.

  Just then, the doors swung open and out walked four big sec men carrying a litter that supported a wicker chair. Sitting in the chair was a boy, certainly no more than ten or twelve. But he was wearing predark clothing in remarkably good condition, and a gunbelt with a sleek autoloader hung from the armrest of his chair. To Ryan and J.B., the blaster looked as if it had never been used.

  As the four men carried the child down the flight of steps, Doc muttered something under his breath.

  “Yes, it does look like something from the pages of Egyptian history,” Mildred remarked out of the corner of her mouth. “And why not? Most of their leaders were physically weak from all of the damn in-breeding.”

  “Hope that isn’t the case now,” J.B. added, barely above a whisper.

  As if he heard the remark, Baron Harmond raised his head and looked directly at the Armorer, sending a cold shiver of danger down his spine. Child or not, this was still the baron of the ville, and his word was the absolute law.

  “So you have come, at last.” Baron Harmond sighed, a faint smiling playing on his pale lips. “The casement begins anew. The future is dead, and the future is reborn.”

  Passing the reins of his horse to Krysty, Ryan scowled at that. Casement? What the nuke-blasting hell was the kid babbling about?

  As the sec men placed the litter on the ground, Doc struggled to recall a faded memory, then his face cleared and he shrugged in resignation. The scholar had been in too many places, and too many times, to recall everything he had ever heard. It was an odd word though. Casement…

  “Alternate realities,” Mildred said out loud, then bit her tongue. “We studied it briefly in college.” Maybe that’s what’s wrong with some doomies. They can see the different versions of this world, possibly even as it endlessly split apart to make and remake the future again and again.

  “Ah, Dr. Mildred.” Harmond chuckled softly, raising an open hand. “Long have we waited for you.”

  “Mildred will do, thanks,” the physician replied. “And I thought Ryan was the important one.”

  “For others, yes, but not for me.” The baron sighed again, rubbing his head. “I’m in pain day and night. Nothing my healers do seems to help. But you can.”

  “Be gla
d to try,” Mildred offered hesitantly. Taking the med kit off the pommel of her saddle, she started forward, but Bateman blocked her way with a raised hand, his other resting on the sawed-off blaster.

  “Not so fast, outlander,” he stated gruffly.

  “She may pass, Glen,” the baron said, waving a pale hand. “This healer does not chill unless necessary.”

  A growing crowd murmured at that as the chief sec man lowered his arm to make a sweeping gesture as if he was a cavalier from the Middle Ages doffing his plumed hat.

  Resting the med kit on the granite steps, Mildred knelt by the pale child. Baron Harmond smiled weakly as she checked his pulse, and he obediently extended his tongue upon request. The crowd murmured unhappily at that, as if it was beneath the dignity of their baron. Then Mildred pressed her ear to his thin chest and finally stood back, chewing a lip.

  “There’s nothing wrong that I can find,” she said pensively. “But from all of those cuts on your thumbs, and the lines around your eyes, you’ve been reading books, and a lot of them.”

  “I have that skill,” the baron answered with a touch of pride. “And I have been going through the remains of the old library to find knowledge to help my people. We can make gunpowder, instead of crude black powder, know to boil bandages, and many important things.”

  Keeping their expressions neutral, Ryan and J.B. tried to hide their disappointment at the news. The secret of making gunpowder was their biggest trade item.

  “Good for you,” Mildred said. “But stop reading the books at night by candlelight. You’re ruining your eyesight, and that’s what is giving you headaches.”

  “The books are doing it?” Bateman growled.

  “Calm down, my old friend,” the baron ordered brusquely.

  “Well, that combined with the fact that you’re a doomie,” Mildred said, undoing the canvas straps to rummage through her med kit. Thank God, Blaster Base One had been well stocked with medical supplies. These past few weeks had been a real test of her doctoring skills.

  “Here,” she said, passing over a plastic bottle wrapped in gray duct tape. “They’re called aspirins. Take two when the pain gets bad. But no more! Just two, and never on an empty stomach.”

  “Thank you.” The baron exhaled as if life itself had been given to him in the little container. “And the tape is for…?”

  “Keeps out the sunlight, helps them last longer.”

  “Ah, yes, complex molecules break down quickly under the direct stimuli of external…” His voice faltered, and the boy wearily hung his head. “No, I can’t remember the rest of the predark words. But the ancient books spoke of sunlight hurting chems. I…had always hoped that sunlight was repairing our world,” the baron said, looking at the toxic storm clouds roiling and rumbling overhead.

  “They will, sir, trust me,” Doc said, resting both hands on his ebony stick.

  Clutching the bottle of aspirins to his heaving chest, the doomie ever so slowly turned his head to stare at Doc.

  “Theophilus.” The baron spoke in a clear voice. “The message you bear is true.”

  Just then a sec man arrived with a bottle of water, and the boy hurriedly started opening the cap, with a little assistance from Mildred to figure out the childproof top.

  Curiously, Ryan looked at Doc and saw that his friend was trembling, a hand clutching his chest as if he was having a heart attack. Then Doc frantically reached inside his frock coat to pull out an old leather wallet. He looked at it for a long moment, then gave the wallet a gentle kiss and tucked it away again, mumbling something under his breath.

  Surreptitiously as possible, J.B. shot Ryan a glance, and the one-eyed man shrugged. The wallet wasn’t something he’d seen before. But then, everybody had secrets.

  “I thank you, sir,” Doc stated, standing taller. “From the very bottom of my heart, sir. I thank you.”

  Tossing his head back, the baron swallowed the aspirin, then wiped his mouth on a sleeve. “Please do not mention it again,” Harmond asked in a strained voice. “The matter is painful for me to think about. There is too much…no, say no more. That matter is closed.”

  Giving a slight bow, Doc nodded. “Of course, I understand.”

  “Do you?” Baron Harmond said, the words nearly rising to a shout. “Do you really?”

  At the cry, every sec man shifted their stance, several of them openly drawing blasters. The companions moved protectively closer to Doc, but the boy slumped in the chair and waved a hand to dismiss the matter.

  “I…” The baron stopped and blinked, the pained expression in his face easing somewhat. “By the blood of my fathers, the pain is getting less. No, it is not just eased, it is gone!”

  “Hmm, interesting,” Mildred said, musing over the quick reaction. The increased blood flow caused by the aspirin couldn’t have affected the boy so quickly unless he had an amazingly fast metabolism. But that would mean…

  Mildred snapped her head around to find the boy already looking at her. She tilted her head in a question, and he nodded.

  “Yes,” Baron Harmond said, addressing her directly. “Five years. Possibly ten now that I have these.” He shook the aspirin bottle at the civies amassed below the stairs. “They do not know.”

  “Nor should they.”

  “Then you understand what the consequences would be? Good. We stand in agreement. I had hoped so.”

  Feeling the crowd and sec men watching her every move, Mildred closed the straps on the med kit and returned it to her horse. The little boy was ten years old, living every day in racking pain, and the mind that gave him such mental powers was also burning out his body. He was like a car engine running too hot. The child would be dead in ten years. Yet his every thought seemed to be directed toward making his ville healthy and strong, bigger, larger, more powerful.

  Oh, shit, Mildred realized in shock. The kid knew something terrible was going to happen, some holocaust, and was preparing them for the time when he couldn’t help them anymore. But what was coming, another nuke war? A plague? Famine? What fresh type of hell was going to be unleashed upon the world in ten years?

  Spinning, Mildred started to speak, but the question became a muttered curse as she saw the litter already going back up the stairs toward the granite barracks.

  “He fell asleep,” Bateman explained, scratching at a sideburn. “Happens more and more these days.”

  “May Gaia protect the boy,” Krysty said. “The young baron looks as if he carried the weight of the entire world.”

  “Perhaps he does,” Mildred whispered as a cold breeze from the dying night blew across the open area, chilling her to the bone.

  “Come on, those horses need a stable. The riders, too, unless I miss my guess,” Bateman announced. Then he frowned. “No, by thunder, frag that. Anybody who helps my baron isn’t sleeping in the stable. You folks can stay in my home. I have the entire second floor above the tavern. Plenty of room for all of you.” The frown became a hesitant smile. “The horses, too, in case you don’t trust us.”

  “Above tavern. Put guests in brothel?” Jak drawled, putting a lot of negative feeling into the word.

  “Used to be. The baron sent the girls to a building across town last year. Not my place, and guest rooms are for visiting folks deemed important enough. Other barons, traders and such,” the sec chief said, starting to walk away. “The baron probably did it just for you folks, if you hadn’t figured that out yet.” He chuckled. “We plan for the future here at Broke Neck. Never understand half of what we’re doing, but it all works out in the end.”

  “Always?” Ryan asked, matching his stride to that of the smaller norm.

  “So far,” Bateman stated with conviction.

  Putting their horses in the ville stable, the companions hauled their backpacks up to their rooms. It had been a long night. As Broke Neck began another day of work, Ryan and the others settled in for some much needed sleep. Although it wasn’t her turn, Krysty insisted on taking the first round of standing gu
ard. This was a new ville, and friendly didn’t always mean that the locals were friends.

  Sitting in a wooden chair near the open window, watching the people below start their morning chores, the redheaded woman nervously kept touching the MP-5 rapidfire on her lap. She had the strangest feeling that somebody was watching the companions, but since they were outlanders in the ville, most of the people would naturally show an interest in them.

  Nothing odd there, Krysty added privately, working the bolt on the rapidfire and easing it back again. Especially since their baron had foretold of our coming months ago.

  The companions stirred in their sleep at the metallic noise, and Krysty stopped the fidgeting. But the uncomfortable sensation of being closely studied didn’t leave her during the next hour, and she warned Ryan about the matter as he took over the watch. Something was wrong in Broke Neck, some hidden evil. The chain of events that had started with their controlled jump to Blaster Base One was drawing to a head. After which, Gaia alone knew what would happen next.

  But Krysty felt sure it would all end in death.

  Chapter Six

  Surrounded by foul-colored clouds, the blazing sun was high in the sky as David and Sharon shuffled along the dirt road leading through the rocky desert. Covered with a fold of cloth, Manda was asleep in her mother’s arms, but the two adults were panting from the rising temperatures of the direct sunlight, sweat dripping off their burning faces.

  It had been a long night. After the stickies had finished their horrible meal, David had gotten down from the tree he had hidden in for refuge and gone back to the crater lake to get the slaver’s handblaster. He’d found the tiny blaster lying in the mud along the shore and had carefully washed it clean. The wep was in fine shape, but empty. Reluctantly, David had rummaged through the gory remains of the slaver’s clothing, trying not to be sick, and eventually found two live brass, along with a perfectly good pair of boots. Everything else was in utter ruins or coated with indescribable filth. Only the flies had seemed not to mind the tattered condition of the corpse, arriving in greater numbers every minute. Clutching his prizes, David had hurried away from the buzzing cloud of tiny scavengers as quickly as possible.