by James Axler
"Try it."
"How about the risk of a booby?" Krysty queried. "Though I don't feel anything."
"Doubt they'd put one on the outer doors." Ryan shook his head. "No. Their only worry was obviously of someone coming in the back door, through the mat-trans. Try the 3-5-2 code, son. See what it brings us."
It brought success, and the familiar sound of gears, muffled and distant, as the hidden machinery began to open the double doors, shifting hundreds of tons of vanadium steel strong enough to withstand anything except a direct nuke hit.
Ryan had positioned himself at the center of the gates, the SIG-Sauer drawn and cocked. He squinted through the widening gap, watching for any sign of danger, ready to warn Dean to instantly reverse the number code and close the sec doors at the first hint of a threat.
But he kept silent, watching as the doors slid wider and wider, revealing forty or fifty feet of the ground outside. There was bright sun, throwing stark shadows, and the smell of pines flooded into the redoubt.
"Oh, that is wonderful," Krysty said, sighing, throwing back her head and drawing in a great lungful of the scented air. "Just smell the green."
Dean moved away as the doors hissed and shuddered to their full width.
There was a wide plateau of bare rock just outside, then the fringes of what looked like a solid wall of green pines towering skyward.
Ryan stepped into the opening, glancing toward the blue sky, noting the streaks of white clouds, with some swelling thunderheads away to the north. A bird of prey, looking like a bald eagle, was riding a thermal a thousand feet above him, scanning the forest below for signs of potential food.
The blaster slid back into its holster as Ryan stood, feet apart, taking in a deep breath of the fresh, bright air. "Fireblast! But that's good."
He turned toward the Armorer, who'd taken the tiny comp sextant out of one of his capacious pockets.
"Where do you put us?" he asked.
"Just a minute."
Jak had been scanning the ground outside the sec doors for any signs of life, animal, human or mutie. "See nothing. Looks like nobody found place."
Ryan nodded. "That forest seems solid as a wall. Must've grown fast and sealed off any road there might have been way back around the long winters."
"What's that?" Mildred had shaded her eyes against the brightness of the sun, peering out toward the west, over the tops of the trees.
"What?" Ryan and the others looked to where she was pointing—all except J.B., who was still fiddling with the controls of the minisextant.
"Silvery," she said. "Big lake. Or…or maybe even a sea of some kind."
"Cific Ocean," J.B. said, putting the instrument back in one of his pockets. "Near as I can make it, we're in the middle of California."
"Really!" Ryan looked across at his old friend. "Bit more specific?"
J.B. had an amazing memory for the topography of the old, long-gone United States of America.
"I'd say that the closest of the old villes to where we are now would be Fresno."
"I took part in a free-pistol competition there, back in '99." Mildred smiled at the memory. "Beat everyone in the Pan-American Games. Scored 996 if I remember right. Four more than a skinny little guy from Brooklyn."
"Fresno would've been around fifty miles west of us, over yonder." J.B. pointed to where there was the glint of distant water, the sun flickering off the lenses of his spectacles. "That's the Cific, all right."
"But it only looks to be a scant forty or so leagues away," Doc said. "Surely the coast should be closer to 150 good miles off?"
Ryan squinted down, running the gray dust through his fingers. "You're forgetting skydark, Doc. Word from the old ones who lived through it was that most all of western California simply slipped into the sea. Hundred percent death toll. The San Andreas Fault went at hour one, and the whole maze of seismic lines opened up like wet string. Dumped the land into the sea, bringing the coast way up into the foothills of the Sierras."
"I forgot that!" Doc exclaimed. "What a fuzzy-minded old fool I am, to be sure, to be sure. So, we could be close to that part of California where the tall trees used to be."
J.B. nodded. "National parks in this region, and we know that redoubts often got themselves built in such places. Sequoia and King's Canyon." He shaded his eyes with the brim of his fedora. "The tall trees, Doc."
Ryan had walked across the plateau, looking down at the clearly man-made surface of impacted gravel, still showing the century-old marks of deeply ridged tires. As he closed on the fringe of sky-scraping pines, he noticed that there were the remains of some stubby stone bollards circling the edge of the roadway. At one point there were the traces of a two-lane blacktop running toward the northwest. But the greening had enveloped the road, and it vanished under the shadowy branches.
"We stuck here, lover?" Krysty said at his side, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his right elbow. "Be a shame if we can't do some exploring. It seems such a beautiful place."
"It does." He put his arm around her shoulders, feeling the sun-warmed material of her white shirt. "You don't feel any stickies in the neighborhood, do you?"
"No. Nothing, except for some sort of back-ground wildlife sensations. Can't say I'm aware of any sense of danger."
"I'm sure we can use that old highway as a sort of lodestar to get us away from here. Trees aren't impenetrable. Should be able to move through them."
"We goin', Ryan?" Jak asked.
"Why not? Everyone ready to do some back-country hiking? Then let's go."
He began to pick his way between the striated trunks of the pines, heading downhill, using the barely visible remnants of the blacktop to guide him. The others were strung out behind him.
Chapter Five
A rust-colored squirrel darted up the tree that stood close to the pathway, chattering angrily at the invasion of its territory. A jay perched on a high, feathery branch, swaying backward and forward in the rising wind, dark, beady eyes watching the seven humans far below it.
Ryan had been a little optimistic about the ease of following the old, lost road through the woods. For some of the time, it was almost as though there had never been a road through the woods. Time and the weather had washed parts of it away, and the fast-growing pines had broken through the tarmac in many places. But it was at least some sort of guide, carrying them gradually downhill from the abandoned redoubt.
It was around noon when the friends finally found themselves nearing the bottom of the slope, and the end of the winding, hidden highway.
The sun had been a constant presence, breaking through the pools of dappled shadow. The scent of the pines was so strong and omnipresent that they'd almost stopped noticing it. Away toward the far north, the sky was darkening with banks of snowy thunderheads. The tall, slender pines that had masked the main entrance to the redoubt had gradually been absorbed into a region of mixed forest. They strolled through a magnificent mixture of ancient oaks, shivering aspens, white firs, dogwoods, sugar pines and cottonwoods, with a smattering of massive sequoias.
The flowers and shrubs were just as impressive: vivid orange and startling white lilies, chiquapin, lupine and bracken ferns. There was a wealth of bird life, including ravens, owls and bright chickadees, which prompted Doc into an impersonation that he claimed was someone called W. C. Fields. He became annoyed when only Mildred had ever heard of the comedian.
Once they paused near a crystal-fresh spring, resting for a few minutes and heard the howling of coyotes, several miles away to the east, in the higher country.
"Used to be bear and bobcats around here," Mildred commented. "I wouldn't be surprised if they made a good recovery without man to hunt them out."
DOC HAD a nasty coughing fit, doubled over, and hawked up threads of green phlegm into the bed of pine needles under his feet. "I feared there that I was about to vomit copiously," he spluttered.
Mildred approached and laid a hand on his sweat-dewed forehead. "Kind of hot," she
commented. "Could be that you're in for a touch of flu, Doc."
"I confess to feeling a few inches below par, Dr. Wyeth. Slight headache and soreness in the throat. Perhaps it is only a touch of the sun. Or a mild attack of altitude sickness. Or it might all be in the fevered imagination of a foolish old man. Let us proceed, shall we?"
THEY HAD EMERGED from the forest onto the buckled remnants of an old highway and followed it as it meandered north and eastward, sometimes between the high walls of a sheer gorge with a river running along its bottom.
"There's a sign," Dean said, running ahead of the others to a bullet-pocked, rusting road sign. "One ninety-eight," he called back to them.
J.B. took off his fedora and scratched his forehead. "Sounds right. Have a feeling it's a highway that runs through Visalia, all the way toward the coast. Linked up with what used to be Highway 101. Way we're heading, I reckon we should finish up in the heart of the national park. See taller trees than you ever imagined."
"Is there one that you can drive a wag clear through?" Krysty asked.
"Believe there used to be, but I think it fell some years before skydark." Mildred shook her head, her beaded, plaited hair rattling. "I expect the trees in the park should be something. If the quakes didn't bring them all crashing down."
The foaming river tumbled over vast rounded boulders, in a flurry of ceaseless, busy foam. The rumbling noise seemed to fill the canyon.
"Running water always make me want to take a leak," Mildred said.
"Nobody stopping you, my dear lady," Doc stated. "You have a thousand miles of back country to choose from."
"I'll wait awhile. Good training for the muscles. May be a rest area just around the corner."
THEY CAME ACROSS a rest area, less than a quarter mile around the next bend. It was off to the right, set back into a wide recess under the cliffs, across the highway from the river.
A central area housed the rest rooms, as well as a number of shaded tables and benches. The rusting remains of barbecue units were visible here and there among the coarse grasses.
Ryan glanced sideways at Krysty, the silent question visible in his eye. She paused a moment, then shook her head. "Nothing human or mutie, though I get the feeling there are animals close by here."
"Likely coyotes?"
"Could be."
Ryan swallowed hard. "Feel thirsty, lover. Going to take a drink from the river."
Krysty watched him cross the deserted highway, the steepling sun throwing his shadow around his ankles. She glanced down at her own booted feet, seeing one of the Deathlands daisies, white and yellow, growing from the dusty soil. She stepped carefully around it, joining the others by the concrete block at the center of the rest area.
They were looking at a notice board. It was around seven feet high, double sided, with a brown metal frame that was covered in break-resistant, transparent plastic, scratched and weathered over the years.
"Tourist information," Doc said, peering at the faded writing.
One notice warned about the dangers of wild animals such as bears, snakes and panthers, stressing that they weren't tamed and feeding them was totally forbidden under park regulations.
Next to it was a warning about back country hiking, making the point that hikers should always register any planned hike and sign on and off with rangers at approved places, marked on the small map on the board.
But what interested Krysty and the others were the crudely hand-lettered, unattributed notices that had been stuck beneath the plastic covers, obscuring some of the original, official messages.
Ryan had rejoined the others, wiping his mouth from his drink, and he read them over Krysty's shoulders.
"War is here. This region is under martial control. Leave now and return to your homes. No photography or videos. Trespassers are likely to be shot on sight."
"Must've gone up in the last hours before the state slipped into the Cific," J.B. said.
"Look on the wall of the John," Mildred said. "Paint's almost gone, but you can read the message. Short and sweet. 'Go home or get shot.' Within a day virtually everyone in the whole country was dead or dying."
They stood in silence, each of them locked into his or her private thoughts, trying to imagine what those last moments before the skies were filled with missiles had to have been like, the chilling awareness of impending doom.
Ryan whistled softly. "Spooky to see a reminder like this. Hardly ever see anything anywhere that was so close to those final hours."
Mildred patted J.B. on the arm. "Got to go use the facilities, John, or I'll burst."
"Take care." He returned her touch. "Remember you might find spiders or snakes or scorpions in an abandoned building like that. Looks as if the roofs been torn open on the far side there. Watch out."
"I'll be fine. Back in a minute."
The outer door had lost all of its paint from a hundred years of weathering, and there were deep scratches down its surface, leaving raw sprinters of white wood. The brass handle was covered in a thick coating of green verdigris. Mildred turned it, finding it seized up solid. She put more of her weight behind it, and it creaked stiffly, then jerked inward.
Mildred could see dazzling sunlight spearing through the damaged roof, and a pile of dried leaves scuffed around her boots. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the hot, acrid smell of stale urine that filled the place, surprising after such a long time.
The inner door stood slightly ajar, and Mildred had the momentary illusion that something had moved inside the rest room. But she decided that it was only the leaves that carpeted the tiled floor.
She was conscious of the growing pressure on her bladder, and she pushed open the heavy door with the heel of her left hand, her right already reaching down for the silver buckle on her thick leather belt. Her head passed directly through the lancing sunshine, making her blink, blinded for a moment. The door swung shut behind her, and the bitter, feral smell was much stronger.
Mildred heard a rustling sound, though she was standing quite still, and there wasn't a breath of wind in the claustrophobic building.
And she became suddenly aware that she wasn't on her own. There was the whisper of steady, rhythmic breathing, and a patch of darkness in the black shadows in the far corner.
Her vision was already adjusting to the mix of light and shade, and she froze, hand inching toward the butt of the Czech revolver on her hip.
It was an enormous black panther, crouched on its haunches, the tip of its tail flicking from side to side. She could see the golden eyes, fixed on her, the ears flattened along the angular skull. The beast, at least twelve feet in length, began to make a purring sound and it stretched its front paws, honed, curved claws scratching on the floor.
Its jaws opened, and she caught the taint of its hot, rancid breath, seeing the ivory glint of the teeth.
"Good God," Mildred whispered, aware that the short hairs were prickling at her nape. There was a dreadful temptation to scream out for help, knowing that J.B. and the others would be with her in less than five beats of the heart, their blasters ripping the magnificent creature to ragged fur and shards of bloodied bone.
But her razored mind overrode that temptation, knowing that the panther would leap at her and bear her to the ground, powerful hind legs ripping at her belly, spilling her guts all over the floor, teeth clamping on her skull, crunching the fragile bones, squeezing eyes from their sockets. That would take only a brace of beats of her heart.
"Slow and easy," she whispered to herself, keeping her eyes locked to those of the beast.
Her fingers were on the butt of the ZKR 551, resting there, waiting to make the next move.
The panther growled, deep in its chest, and its back twitched with the desire to charge and rend and kill.
Mildred stood very, very still.
OUTSIDE, THE SIX companions had found a patch of shade to sit down in. The conversation had turned, amid that wilderness, to which kind of wood could best be hewed and which burned wi
th the best flame.
"I have hacked away at a log of black walnut," Doc said ruminatively. "There is something slippery about it. However careful you might be in setting the blade of the ax into a straight line, the black walnut always splits in an oddly curved way, with a gentle bent to it."
"That's true, Doc," Ryan agreed. "But nothing burns cleaner and fresher than a cord of apple wood."
"Cherry's mighty sweet," Krysty said. "Uncle Tyas McCann cut down a whole ancient orchard on the edge of Harmony. Whole place, burned it for a winter and a half. Lovely scent."
"Seasoned pine fine winter. Or piñon, most any time. In swamps was hard finding good dry wood."
J.B. looked back over Ryan's shoulder, toward the block of rest rooms. "Mildred's takin' a long time," he stated. "Think she's all right?"
"Would've shouted if she wasn't," Ryan said. "Mebbe a stomach bug got her."
The Armorer stood, stretching. "Think I'll just step over and see whether— Dark night!"
There had been a sudden, shockingly violent trio of noises: a scream, a thunderous roar and a single pistol shot. Then silence.
Chapter Six
Mildred had managed to get the revolver three-quarters out of its holster. Her index finger caressed the trigger, her eyes still fixed on the panther's face.
The animal was bowstring tense, muscles twitching beneath the coat of fine black fur. Its ears were still flattened against the skull, eyes glowing in the dim light.
Mildred kept the blaster at her side, thumb making contact with the spurred hammer. She was aware of sweat trickling down the small of her back, between her breasts, over her stomach. The salty liquid beaded her forehead, her cheeks.
The huge mutie carnivore was so aware of any movement from its intended prey that Mildred didn't dare to move her gun farther, sensing that the panther would react immediately by charging across the rest room at her.
The wind outside stirred some of the dried rubbish, trapped in the splintered ruins of the angled roof, loosing an aspen leaf and sending it spinning down into the warm space, whirling around and around.
