Perdition Valley

by James Axler

  Impatiently, John reached out a hand, but then stayed the urge to fiddle with the controls. The fancy equipment handled such things all by itself, and didn’t need any help, strange as that sounded. Until today, the elder Rogan would have sworn that radios were only good for a couple hundred feet under ideal conditions, often a nuking lot less. But these models that Delphi had given them could cover miles in open territory. Miles! Even more at night, although he didn’t know why. Did the sun interfere with a radio?

  Long-range communications. It was a whole new idea to the Rogans, and had opened a wealth of recce possibilities in their hunt for the outlanders. Plus, there now was the potential of rebellion against their hated master. They knew that Delphi listened to every word they said on the device, and could track the bikes by some kind of predark tech totally beyond their understanding. But knowing that he listened to them, the brothers had worked out a plan to get some revenge should the opportunity present itself.

  “Alan?” the elder Rogan shouted into the hand mike. “We can’t hear you anymore. Still there, boy?”

  Stutters, chirps and high-pitched howls came from the speakers on the three motorcycles in perfect unison. Suddenly the static vanished as if a switch had been thrown and there was only a low powerful hum coming from the radio speakers.

  “He said that Ryan and Doc are at Broke Neck ville,” Delphi said in a deceptively calm voice. “Now go get them, and do not fail. I would be most displeased.” There followed a moment of silence. “Goodbye for now.”

  Pressing the transmit button on the side of the mike, John started to ask a question when there came a loud snap from the speakers and all of the radios went silent.

  “Dead as dirt,” Robert said, rubbing his wounded arm. “I guess they ain’t needed no more.”

  “And the same thing will happen to us after Delphi has what he wants,” Edward proclaimed, returning his mike to a clip on the dashboard. He watched as the cord was automatically drawn inside to vanish from sight.

  “I know that!” Robert barked.

  Glancing skyward at the fiery sun, John ran a thoughtful hand across the satiny paint of the predark machine. The black metal was cool to the touch, and he remembered Delphi saying something about the bikes needing to absorb sunlight to charge the electric engines. Were heat and light the same thing? Mebbe. Interesting.

  “What now, brother?” Edward asked, cracking the knuckles of his oversize hands. “Should we wait for dark, or—”

  “We ride,” John said, climbing onto the two-wheeler and twisting the grips on the handlebar. The big engine began to softly hum, the dashboard coming to life with a dozen glowing meters and gauges. “Ed, get the blasters. Robert, lock Lily in the blockhouse, and give her some water this time. I don’t know when we’re coming back.”

  Lily said nothing, waiting for her fate.

  As his brothers got busy. John reached inside his shirt to pull out a heavy revolver, a blaster not given to them by Delphi but taken from a one-eyed baron before they’d nailed him screaming to a cross. Each of the brothers had a secret arsenal of weps taken from their victims—handblasters, plas charges, switchblade knives, even an implo gren! Yeah, all sorts of things. From the very beginning, Delphi had treated them like dogs, stupe animals to be whipped and trained.

  But old dogs could learn new tricks, John added with a grim expression. When the Rogans delivered Doc Tanner alive to Delphi, he’d go crazy with delight. Which made it the perfect time to strike back at their hated master. And the first move would be to distract Delphi by chilling Tanner.

  Chapter Nine

  The Broke Neck tavern was located near the marketplace and the whipping post, a grim reminder of the painful fate that would befall any sec man found drunk on duty. Ryan approved of the iron-fisted subtlety.

  Whatever the building had been in the past was gone under decades of sandblasting from the desert winds and the addition of adobe brick walls to support the exterior of the structure.

  A poorly carved wooden bottle hung above the front door to let folks know this was a tavern, and there was also a rather surprisingly good painting across the front of the mud bricks showing laughing people with huge frothy mugs raised high as beautiful topless women danced on tabletops laden with steaming food.

  Shifting the med kit slung over her shoulder, Mildred snorted. So advertising had finally crawled from the grave of the nuclear war, she thought. Pity.

  There was no porch, but a tattered awning stretched out from the roof to offer some small measure of shade to the couple of men sitting on plastic milk crates in front of the building. A middle-aged man was whittling on a dried gourd, every now and then blowing into the stem to produce musical tones. But he’d frown unhappily with the result and return to carefully carving on the husk some more. Smoking a hand-rolled cig, the young man was dressed in only denim shorts, his lean body rippling with hard muscle.

  Outside of the small patch of shade was a swayback horse and a bicycle, both lashed securely to a piece of lead pipe sticking out of the ground. The rusty bike seemed to have been there for years, and the horse had seen better days. Its back was deeply bowed, and the coat dappled with scars. The chestnut mare was trembling from the tremendous effort of simply standing upright. It was plain to see that soon the beast would get aced from sheer age to become boots and belts, the flesh smoked into jerky, and the bones boiled down into glue for the crossbow arrows. Even in death, the horse would serve its owners.

  As the companions pushed open the screen door, the young man waved his cig in greeting, and Jak caught a whiff of the smoke, some awful mix of cornsilk and maryjane. Obviously a local taste.

  The interior of the tavern was dark. The windows were boarded shut, probably to keep out the windblown sand and to prevent drunks from smashing the irreplaceable sheets of predark glass. The cool air was smoky from the fumes of the lamps on the tables. In the flickering glow of the lanterns, the companions could see that the tavern was nearly empty. Aside from a couple of scantily dressed gaudy sluts sitting at a table near the bar. One of the table legs was short, and supported by an adobe brick to make the piece of furniture stay level.

  Flashing fake smiles, the women perked up as the companions entered. But when none of the outlanders seemed interested, the women let the expressions fade away, then went back to playing a game of dominos and smoking their cigs. Behind them, a flight of stairs leading to the second floor from where there came the unmistakable sounds of couples having enthusiastic sexual intercourse.

  Warily glancing around, Ryan saw that the walls were made of the original redbrick, and displayed a lot of predark posters of different cities from around the world. Obviously, loot from a travel agency. The posters were torn and faded, but Mildred felt a lump form in her throat at the sight of New York and the mighty Empire State Building, London and Big Ben, San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, the ultramodern Opera House in Sydney Australia…

  With a sigh, Mildred turned away from the depressing sight. Gone. All of the once-great cities were long gone now, either crumbling into ruins or merely radioactive holes in the fused ground.

  Across the tavern was an ornate grandfather clock in the far corner, softly clicking, and nearby stood a huge grand piano. Not an upright, or spinet, or even a baby grand, but a full-size, concert-class grand piano. Then the physician did a double take. The damn thing was enormous! The black veneer had peeled away in spots, exposing the dark wood underneath, but the lid was raised showing that all of the strings were still intact. Just incredible.

  “How get in?” Jak asked, glancing at the man-size front door.

  “Must have been here originally,” Krysty theorized. “Or else one of the rear walls was missing and they hauled it inside before putting up the adobe bricks.”

  The teen nodded. Yep, made sense. The simple answers were usually correct.

  The tables in the tavern were everything from an office desk to a wooden door placed on top of a refrigerator lying sideways on the flo
or. At the far end of the room was a counter made of wooden boards laid on more orange highway crash barrels. A bald man in an apron was wiping down the counter with a rag. His shirt was cut off at the shoulders, displaying numerous tattoos, including a vaguely familiar compass and square. It took Doc a minute before he recognized the ancient symbol of the Freemasons. The ancient fraternity had survived the nuke war? Well, well, his father would have been highly pleased to know that. God rest his soul.

  Filling the wall behind the bartender was a jigsaw mirror composed of countless shapes and sizes, but the reflection made the tavern seem brighter and larger. Wooden shelves around the mirror were lined with drinking containers of every type imaginable—glass tumblers, ceramic mugs, crystal goblets and plastic cups bearing the colorful logos of famous football teams. The warriors of the gridiron reduced to amusing figures for the grim soldiers of the Deathlands to puzzle over.

  With Ryan leading the way, the companions choose a large redwood table that had formerly been a spool of industrial cable. The round table was situated near the empty fireplace where they could keep a watch on the front door. Taking chairs from other tables, the companions sat and placed their blasters on the tabletop to deter any trouble from drunks.

  “Hey, Gertie!” the bartender hollered, still rubbing the counter. “Customers!”

  From out of a back room exploded a mannish woman with a broken nose, tattoos and close-cropped blond hair. Her dress was made of a hundred different squares of material in a bewildering array of colors. Gertie was also wearing a greasy apron more suitable for arc welding than serving. Then to belie the rough demeanor, the woman boasted a tremendous bosom. It was absolutely colossal, barely contained in the patchwork dress. Every man in the room sneaked an appreciative glance, and every woman gave an expression of sympathy. Her back had to be in agony at the end of the day from hauling around that amount of jiggling weight.

  “Oh, it’s you folks,” Gertie said, frowning as she approached the companions. “Thought you’d be eating with the baron.”

  “Not today. What do you have?” Ryan asked, sidestepping the issue. The less folks knew about their biz, the better.

  “Whaddaya got?” she shot back, resting a fist on her hip in the style of every waitress in the history of the world.

  Reaching into a pocket, Ryan laid a couple live rounds of brass on the table. They were .22-caliber shells, a size that didn’t fit any of the weapons used by the companions. But for most of the Deathlands, ammo was the only currency that mattered, and it always got the best exchange rate.

  In frank appreciation, the woman greedily stared at the brass, then sighed. “Ain’t worth shit here,” Gertie stated, scratching her head. “Sorry. Just wanted to see if you were trying to pull rank or something. But we heard what ya did for the baron. The meal’s on the house.”

  Across the room, the gaudy sluts looked up at that, their cigs drooping in stern disapproval.

  “Of course, that doesn’t cover shine or sluts,” Gertie hastily amended. “We love the boy, but we gotta make a living, ya know?”

  “No problem,” Ryan said, rolling the cartridge across the wooden surface. “Food and shine.”

  Gertie made the catch with one hand and bit the cartridge to make sure it wasn’t corroded or varnished wood. Satisfied, she tucked it away between her ample breasts.

  With the amount of sheer cleavage on display, J.B. casually wondered what else was hidden there. Mebbe a couple war wags, or a small ville?

  “For chow, we got some roast prairie dog, very nice. Then lizard stew and fried rabbit. Plus, there’s some roast horse that probably won’t ace you too quickly if you’re strong.”

  “We’ll have the rabbit,” Mildred decided. There were a lot of unsavory things that could be tossed into a stew to make it last longer, some of them extremely unhealthy.

  “Smart choice. This ain’t the baron’s table, and sure as drek ain’t no redoubt.” Gertie smiled generously, scratching under a breast. “But the rabbit is fresh, and it wasn’t a mutie. Well, not much of one, anyway. What’s a couple legs among friends, eh?”

  Galvanized motionless, the companions said nothing as the soft hissing of the alcohol lantern ruled the table, the noise seeming unnaturally loud. Then Ryan slowly looked up at the woman.

  “What was that word you used?” Ryan demanded, trying to fake indifference.

  Puzzled, Gertie started to repeat the old joke about extra legs, then realized it was the other part they meant. “Shitfire, ain’t you folks ever heard the legend of the redoubts?” She laughed, her plump breasts jiggling outrageously.

  None of the companions spoke or moved.

  “Guess not,” Gertie muttered. “Well, the short version is that there’s some sorta underground fort up in the Mohawk Mountains near a bridge, and it’s filled with blasters and bread, and wags and all sort of wonderful drek.”

  Placing both hands on the table, she leaned forward, the position straining her dress to the breaking point. “Guarded by armored muties, of course.” She grinned, enjoying their stunned reactions. The stupe bastards were listening as if this was important. Nobody was even looking down her dress. “And even the black doors chills ya if you touch it wrong. Zap! You’re ash in the wind.”

  “Really? Sounds fascinating,” Doc whispered, his hands knuckle-white on his ebony walking stick. “And, uh, where was that again, dear lady?”

  Standing straight, Gertie shifted her stance to ease her aching lower back. “Dunno, just somewhere in the hills. Near a bridge, I think. Or was it a mine?” She jerked a thumb at the bartender. “Buy him a couple drinks, and Cougar will tell ya all sorts of stuff.”

  “You bet I will!” Cougar promised from behind the counter, crossing his herculean arms. “Supposed to have booze by the gallon, and barrels of brass!”

  “And dancing girls!” a drunk shouted from a corner table. “And clean water! And boots made of silk!”

  In short order, the rest of the people in the place took up the cry, adding wonders and delights, until the place roared with laughter. Only the companions stayed quiet at their table, an island of silence in the boisterous tavern. Realizing that they were starting to stand out from the crowd, the companions joined in with the rest, and started making up impossible things. Solid-gold blasters! Air wags! Vids! Medicine that could cure rad sickness! Toothpaste!

  “Sounds aces to me,” Ryan said when the laughter slowed down at last. “So why are you here, and not searching for this redoubt?”

  “Oh, lots of folks have gone looking,” Cougar said, giving a wink. “But nobody ever came back.”

  “Where was that again, the More-Walk Mountains?” J.B. asked, deliberately getting the name wrong to test their reaction.

  “No, the Mohawk Mountains,” a gaudy slut added. “They’re just to the west and north of here. Can’t miss ’em.”

  “Thanks,” Cougar jeered, giving the woman a dirty look. He had been planning to string the outlanders along into buying drinks for the rest of the night with that bit of info.

  “Mutie shit, I say,” Gertie added with a rude snort, turning to walk away. Then she added over a shoulder, “Underground forts, metal doors…blind norad, what a load of drek!” Still laughing, the waitress went into the back room, and there came the sound of rattling pots and pans.

  “Mother Gaia, how is this possible?” Krysty asked urgently, her voice hard with tension. “Think somebody found a redoubt?”

  “Lots of people have before,” Ryan admitted. “But they generally end up chilling each other and that keeps the bases secret.”

  “Still, this gives us the option of climbing, rather than trying to swim upstream to reach Blaster Base One,” Mildred added softly.

  “Don’t like this,” Ryan confessed, worrying a fist into his palm. “Anything that seems too good to be true, most often is. I’m just wondering if this is a lucky break or another damn trap.”

  “Baron Harmond would know,” Doc added succinctly.

  �
�Mebbe this is why he had the stable hand send us here.”

  “Mebbe.”

  Just then Gertie appeared, carrying a wooden board stacked with hubcaps piled with steaming meat. There was also a ceramic jug with a cork in the top, and a collection of coffee mugs.

  “Eat fast,” Ryan directed. “Then we go see the baron.”

  “I’ll be fragging delighted when we leave his pesthole,” J.B. added with unaccustomed vehemence. “There are just too damn many odd things going on here, and I’ll be a lot happier once Broke Neck is growing small behind us.”

  “Amen to that,” Doc mumbled, stoically digging into his meal.

  Chapter Ten

  Whistling a tune, the mountain man strolled along the predark bridge. The asphalt was barely cracked, and the structure was as strong as ever. Down below on either side were only misty depths, the bottom of the canyon lost from sight.

  Thankfully, the metal girders didn’t shake in the least as he walked along, even with a heavy haunch of dripping meat draped across his broad shoulders. The hunting had been excellent that day and he’d aced a norm deer. The man smacked his lips in delight. With proper curing, this much meat meant that he would live through the coming winter. The flatlanders often bitched about the acid rain. Moose crap. Let them try living through a season of acid snow!

  Reaching the other side of the bridge, the hunter suddenly paused, every nerve tingling with danger. Swiftly his eyes swept back and forth, but there was nothing to be seen but the bare rocks of the mountain pass and a few scraggy bushes.

  With a curse, he shrugged off the carcass and drew both of his blasters, a remade predark and a homie. There was something inside the bushes that reflected something shiny.

  At the sight of the weapons, the basilisk rose to its full height and towered over the horrified man. Almost dropping his blasters, the hunter stared in horror at the twinkling lights and flexing steel armature inside the pulsating gelatinous mass. What the nuking hell kind of mutie was this?