by James Axler
The overwhelming color was the maroon of the men's jackets, matched by the blouses and skirts of the women.
Ryan noticed that all of the men carried their blasters with them wherever they went. It was something that he approved of, if it was true that they were in a state of permanent armed conflict with the local Mescalero.
If you met up with hostile Apaches, then you best be carrying all the weapons you could manage. There was no such thing as too many blasters.
Wolfe shepherded them along. "Come, my dear outlanders. You shall face the testing with the love of Jesus Christ as your shield and buckler."
"Sword," Doc said, his booming voice sounding unexpectedly loud.
"How's that, old-timer?" Wolfe asked, his benevolent smile still pasted firmly in place, though Ryan noticed that it didn't seem to quite reach the slightly thyroid eyes.
Doc coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. "My apologies, friends." He half bowed to the leader of the Children of the Rock. "I simply thought it fit to correct your error, Master Wolfe. That was all."
"Error? I think you should know that I am not in the habit of making any errors."
There was a cold edge to the man's voice, like a hacksaw buried in ice.
"Forgive me, dear sir, but indeed you did. You spoke of shield and buckler, did you not?"
Wolfe hesitated for a moment. The men and women of the ville were all pressed around him, hanging on the exchange. It was all too obvious that it was unusual for anyone to contradict something said by Brother Joshua Wolfe.
"Let it lie, Doc," Ryan said quietly, so quietly that the old man didn't hear him above the murmurs of the crowd outside the church.
"I said shield and buckler, Brother Tanner. That was what I said."
Doc laughed croakily. "My point, my point, sir. That is a plain tautology."
"What the fuck you blatherin' about, you triple stupe?" Owsley snapped.
Doc didn't hear, or ignored, the hostility in the sec man's voice. "A shield is a buckler. And a buckler is a shield. They are one and the same thing. I believe that what you meant to say was sword and buckler." A long pause. "Or, mayhap, you might have said sword and shield. One and the same thing, Brother Wolfe. They are one and the same."
"That is so interesting. By the cherubim and seraphim, Brother Tanner, but I am so pleased that you saw fit to correct my foolish error."
The sarcasm was tainted with a red-mist anger, barely under control.
Mildred sensed it, stepping between Wolfe and Doc. "That's enough of errors, Doc," she said, taking the old man by the arm. "Let's go and have us some churching."
"But of course, madam. I shall mark your footsteps, goodly page, and follow in them closely. And the wolf and the moth shall not corrupt us. While the rabid wolf shall lay down with the lion. I could wolf down some good communion wafers and wine. Wolf them, Brother Wolfe."
Owsley moved in on Mildred, his eyes tight with rage, the tip of his tongue flicking at his suppurating lips like a rattler tasting the air. His hand was on the butt of the Hawes Montana Marshal. "You just shut—" he began.
Ryan's fingers closed on the SIG-Sauer, and he expected the whole afternoon to erupt into gunfire and bloodshed.
But Joshua Wolfe controlled the moment.
"No!" he snapped, gesturing with the stump of his missing hand. "No, Brother Owsley. It doesn't signify at all. I'm interested to learn about my mistake."
The hair-trigger instant came and went. There was a whisper of conversation, overlaid with a touch of disappointment, and they all went inside the church.
THE INSIDE DECORATION of the building wasn't like anything that Ryan had ever seen before.
Most churches he'd encountered had religious pictures on the walls. Saints at their labors, or resting, in all styles and patterns. One near Zuni had Christian imagery pictured through Native American art, the apostles as kachina figures.
This was different.
"Dad, this is something else," Dean breathed as he slid along into one of the front oak pews, on the right side of the narrow, maroon-carpeted aisle.
Josiah Steele sat next to Ryan at the end of the row. "Not many churches look like this, do they, Brother Cawdor? You could walk the length and breadth of all Deathlands and never see its like in any ville."
Ryan nodded. "Can't argue with that."
Joshua Wolfe had gone to the front of the building, standing with arms folded, hooded eyes watching as his congregation settled into their places.
"Welcome to the first Church of the Children of the Rock in the holy sanctuary of Hopeville." His voice was deep and solemn, the words sounding as though they had been dragged out of some cold underground catacomb. "Amen."
"The Church of Jesus Christ the paramilitary fundamentalist welcomes all."
That was the motif repeated endlessly around the walls and windows of the building. The same theme even decorated the arched ceiling.
Christ was portrayed as a white man in his thirties, with neatly trimmed hair and a small goatee beard, his blue eyes glittering fanatically. In most of the paintings He was wearing a smart set of camouflage fatigues and carried a whole range of weaponry. The main stained-glass window behind the altar—which was made from ammo boxes riveted together—showed him hefting a Kalashnikov, flames spitting from the muzzle.
In one of the side windows, highlighted in garish reds and yellows, the Savior was carrying an antique Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle, with a bayonet fixed. Blood dripped from the steel blade.
Spread all across the ceiling was the military Jesus, complete with a halo of golden barbed wire, leaning from the cockpit of an unidentifiable tank that was driving over a mountain of pulped corpses, most of which were clearly of different, nonwhite ethnic origins.
Another picture showed the Christ-figure slitting the throat of a huge, red-eyed grizzly, a jet of arterial blood spurting out over the faces of a group of worshipping acolytes, all holding Smith & Wesson automatics.
"Not like any Blessed and Merciful Jesus that I've ever seen, lover," Krysty whispered. "More like a kind of military Conan the Barbarian."
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild," Doc croaked, sitting next to the scarlet-haired woman. "I see precious little evidence of either meekness or mildness."
Joshua Wolfe held up his remaining hand, waiting for silence. "Enough, brothers and sisters," he said. "We are here in the name of the Lord Jesus, armorer over all blasters. Watcher of ammo and hammer and bolt and cartridge. Master of the full-metal jacket. Upholder of the razor-steel blade."
On the other side of the church, Ryan noticed an immensely tall and powerful woman, eyes closed V behind layers of fat, strangler's hands clasped, mouth open in adoration. She wasn't someone he cared to go up against in a dark alley after midnight.
"We worship gladly, O Lord, at thy feet. We welcome thy blessed aid in all manner of chilling. Thou art there at the shooting and the stabbing. At the strangling and the drowning. At the poisoning and the flaying. The hider and the hunter and the tracker. At the slitting and the hacking and the brother with the switchblade knife. At the burning, the night's ambush and the final shuddering breath."
He paused, and the congregation came smoothly in with their well-rehearsed response. "Let thy rain and burning embers fall into our open, staring eyes. For we are without all grace if You are not with us."
"Hallelujah! Come heal the sick and trample down the weak!" roared the giantess, arms held up above her head, fingers almost touching the ornate wrought-iron chandelier.
Ryan heard J.B. whispering to Mildred. "Looks like she done her fair share of trampling the weak."
Mildred sniggered. On the left side, in the second row of pews, Jim Owsley turned and scowled across at the sudden noise, glaring at Mildred.
Wolfe ignored the minor interruption. "We listen and note all Your teachings, Master-at-arms Jesus. Keep the sun at your back and allow for windage. Lay off the shot if you're firing down a hill. And never hit seventeen when you're up against the de
aler. Never give your real name to a gaudy hooker. Keep your powder dry and your blaster clean and oiled."
The solitary "Amen" came from J.B.
Ryan leaned back uncomfortably, thinking that he'd actually never sat in a comfortable seat in any church, anywhere in Deathlands. It seemed to be an inevitable, integral part of any religious ceremony.
Krysty insinuated her strong hand into his, squeezing his fingers.
"All right?" she breathed. Ryan responded by tightening his grip on her hand.
Wolfe was still fulminating on, painting a bloody picture of Christ the guerrilla fighter and survivalist. "We are as one with Him. One with the double-cross and the flame. One with all who are at one. And against anyone who opposes Him or stands against the Children of the Rock."
Another chorus of "amens" was even louder than before, seeming to make the roof beams quiver.
"We have here, Lord, seven outlanders. Two known to us from the olden days when they walked a different path. Now they seek the light and we welcome them. All that remains is the testing, and this shall be done before all brothers and sisters at noon tomorrow."
There was a pedal harmonium in one corner of the church, played by a stout woman in her thirties, with hair almost as red as Krysty's. The hymn, bellowed lustily by the entire congregation, was an old frontier tune, familiar to everyone there: "Guide My Bullet Precious Lord."
When it was over, they all filed out into the clean, pine-scented afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mildred decided that Doc would be far better off, in his sickness, spending the afternoon warm under a pile of blankets in their hut. She arranged for one of the ville's older women to look in on him, and provide him with plenty of drinks of hot lemon and honey.
"Dehydration," she said. "That's the biggest danger when you're running a temperature. I think it's some kind of Sierra influenza. You got all the symptoms that I'd expect—trembling and stiffness and soreness in the joints, feeling hot and cold at the same time. Sweating."
"Perspiring, madam, if you please. Horses sweat and men perspire."
"While ladies merely glow." Mildred grinned at him. "Sure. I know that. Couple of days feeling like death and you should start getting better."
"How about the testing?" Dean asked. "Doc'll let us all down if he's sick."
He was greeted with an angry harrumphing sound from the old man. The boy was eager to be out into the fresh air. Ryan had agreed that they could carry out something of a recce. They'd checked with Wolfe, who'd been happy to grant them his permission. He'd offered them a half dozen of his finest sec men to escort them among the monstrous trees.
"No. Be fine, thanks," Ryan replied. "Be back here before dusk."
"Watch out for Apaches," Josiah Steele warned. "Constant thorn in our side."
"They'll likely see you, before you spot any sign of them," Owsley added. "Nobody like Mescalero for hiding."
Ryan laughed, untroubled. "Lots of them are good as the Mescalero at an ambush—Cheyenne, Oglala, Pawnee, Huron, Creek, Arapaho. You name me any rad-blasted tribe, and I'll have been attacked by them. Dense forest like this, any stupe stickie could hide well enough."
"Hide a cavalry regiment," J.B. added, slinging the Uzi. "Herd of buffalo. Platoon of grandmothers. Township of deaf beavers. Whole army of par-blind priests."
Owsley spit in the dirt and turned away from them. Steele watched his colleague depart. "Not a good man for an enemy," he said quietly.
"I already figured that," Ryan stated tersely, instantly regretting it. "Sorry, Brother Steele. Didn't mean to snap at you. Grateful for the warning."
"Sure. Take care out there, now. Get back and eat well and sleep good. Need to be at your best for the testing tomorrow afternoon."
"GOD'S COUNTRY," Ryan said, sucking in several deep, chest-filling breaths. They'd gone about a mile and a half from the center of Hopeville, leaving behind the oppressive, crazed fanaticism of the Children of the Rock. The weather was perfect, with just the faintest breeze from the north stirring the smaller branches of the great pines. After starting along the ribboned blacktop, Ryan led the companions toward the west, up a spur trail that showed only the hoofmarks of a herd of deer.
"Seems like the hot spot's in this direction," he said, checking with his miniature rad counter, which had shifted imperceptibly from orangy red to a reddish orange.
A tiny mountain quail, followed by eight bundles of downy feathers, scampered across the narrow side track, ignoring the interlopers into its territory. "Looking for game?" Jak asked. Ryan shook his head. "No need. Seem real well supplied back at the ville."
They crossed a vivid strip of open meadow, surrounded by the towering black corpses of burned-out trees. The grass was lush, speckled with a variety of colorful plants. Krysty identified mimulus and collinsia, with the delicate orange of columbine and the flaming daggers of the Indian paintbrush.
"God's country," Mildred said, stretching her arms out wide, smiling broadly for sheer pleasure of being alive. "Air like this should be nectar for poor old Doc."
"You worried about him?" Ryan asked.
"Not exactly. There's this bizarre temporal anomaly about how old he really is and how old he seems to be. Two totally different figures."
"I always think of him as being old." Dean waved his hand to disturb a swarm of tiny gnats that had gathered around his head.
Mildred nodded. "Sure thing. Looks to be somewhere around the middle of his seventies."
"Eighties on a bad day," Krysty said.
"No. Nineties on a real bad day," Mildred insisted.
"How old is he? There was all that time-jumping fucked up his body and mind."
Ryan had often thought about that particular puzzle and had the answer ready. "Born Theophilus Algernon Tanner, South Strafford, Vermont, February 14 in the year of Our Lord 1868. Married his beloved Emily in June of 1891. Children came along for them in 1893 and 1895."
"Rachel and Jolyon," J.B. added, fanning at the warm air with the brim of his fedora.
"Right. Then those sick whitecoat bastards time-trawled him forward to 1998, 102 years into his future."
"Not surprising his brain's gotten scrambled." Mildred took a drink from one of the water containers that they'd been given by Steele.
Dean cursed at the insects. "Are we moving on?"
"Sure, Dean, and there's no need to curse. From my rad counter, it can't be that far to the source of the leak."
Krysty bit her lip, worried. "Is that a good idea, lover? Going on? What do you think, J.B.?"
"Reading's not really high enough to present us with a serious, immediate health threat." J.B. checked the small counter on the lapel of his coat again. "It looks like a long-term, slow-leak hot spot."
"Men exposed at Chernobyl—that was a deadly serious Russian meltdown toward the end of the twentieth century—were only out unprotected for a minute or so, trying to do some instant repair work. And they were nearly all dead within months. Weeks, some of them."
Everyone looked at Mildred, startled into silence by her information.
Ryan sniffed. "That so? Heard the name. Didn't know it was that ferocious."
"There are different kinds of radiation sickness."
She stared at the towering trees all around them.
"Some's quick and some's slow. Noticed quite a few of the men and women in the ville showed signs of slow—hair loss, sores on their faces, especially around the mouth, bleeding gums, joint stiffness and problems in mobility. And, as we already know, there's sterility for men and for women. So, no kids in Hopeville."
"And then they have to steal from the Apaches," Ryan said. "Sounds like what we remember about Joshua Wolfe. Trust him about so far—" he held his thumb and index finger an inch apart "—and no farther. He wouldn't have an urge to take young Dean, I'd guess."
"I'd shoot him, Dad. Already lost one parent, and I didn't like being away from you when I was at the Brody School."
"No one will ever ta
ke you from me—you know that, son." The light of love glowed brightly in Ryan's eye.
"You think we're safe visiting this old 'complex,' lover? And how about hanging around in the ville, so close to a hot spot. Might be safer to move on."
Ryan turned to Krysty. "We aren't staying long. Couple of days or so. With Doc being ill, it's mebbe better to keep to where he can be looked after."
"Still not happy."
Jak had wandered a little way ahead of where they'd all stopped, calling back, "Think see it!"
IT WAS MUCH SMALLER than most of the other redoubts that they'd encountered, scattered throughout Deathlands. Any thoughts that it might have concealed a gateway were immediately dashed. There was every sign it was a place that had been hastily built in the last days before skydark.
The overgrown remains of a tarmac roundabout, edged with disintegrating concrete posts about three feet high, stood in long grass, reminding Ryan of the grave markers that he'd once seen dotting the abandoned battlefield of the Little Bighorn.
The entrance to the redoubt gaped open, one of the double sec doors lying, rusting, in the dirt. The other hung by only one of the set of massive hinges. Even from thirty yards away, they could all smell the dank air.
Krysty sighed, closing her eyes in an expression of distaste. "Almost feel the wickedness here," she said. "I know it's imagination, but I swear that I can actually see the radiation poisoning seeping out of the black cavern, like a great slow cloud of evil."
Ryan left her, walking to stand in the cold shadows of the entrance. He peered into the blackness, listening to the dismal sound of water dripping from the arched roof, some distance inside.
J.B. joined him, taking off his glasses to polish them on his sleeve. "Dark night! Smell of death. Not sure there's much point in going on to recce much farther. Reckon we've seen most of what we need to see."
It was obvious that the redoubt had been completely stripped when it was abandoned. The inside was bare and empty, glistening with a fluorescent green moss that seemed to cover all the walls and stone floor.
Ryan pointed to a place higher up the side of the hill, where there had been a vast earth shift, probably dating from very early in the days after the heavens were clouded with thousands of missiles and the people died. Dead trees leaned sideways, their rotting roots exposed to the sunlight.
