by James Axler
When the campfire stopped spitting lead, Ryan headed for the holding pit to check on the prisoners. But as he passed the smoking ruins of the exploded tent, Ryan saw no bodies strewed around in the wreckage. Only a neat square hole in the ground, a sturdy bamboo ladder going down into the darkness. Ryan set his mouth in a thin line. Tricked again!
Whistling sharply, he signaled the others over and they cautiously gathered around the hole. Doc dropped down a torch, and a group of cannies standing at the bottom of the ladder started firing flintlocks in reply. Moving out of the way, Ryan fired blindly over the edge until the others stopped.
"Son of a bitch, this is just the top!" J.B. raged, shouldering the exhausted Uzi. "The rest of the ville is underground!"
"Seal it," Jak said, passing over the munitions bag. "Found this in other tent." The bag was splashed with fresh blood, none of it from the Cajun.
Making the catch with one hand, J.B. dug into his bag and pulled out a block of C-4 salvaged from the lighthouse. Actually, it was the C-4 taken from forty grens whose firing mechanisms had been rusted useless. He removed the small pats of plas and molded them into a block. Safe inside the airtight gren, the high-explosive plastique was as good as ever.
"Half block," Ryan said, estimating the size of the tunnel. He wanted it sealed tight, with no chance of their digging their way out again.
"Hell with that," J.B. retorted, the raw marks of his wrists aching as he stabbed a timing pencil into the full block. Snapping off the length of the pencil at thirty seconds, he tossed the whole primed charge down the hole.
Wasting no time, the companions raced away from the area and were almost to the filthy pool when there was a tremendous detonation and the entire valley shook. The torso fell off the spit, large sections of the pungi-stick wall collapsed and the horses in the corral screamed in fear.
Checking the results, the men saw the ground had fallen into a deep depression about twenty feet wide and just as deep. There was no way the cannies were going to dig their way out of that avalanche, if anybody survived the blast.
"Let's find Ann," Ryan said, heading across the ville.
Going over to the holding pen, Ryan passed a moaning cannie twitching on the ground, a piece of tent stake protruding through his side. Holstering his piece, the Deathlands warrior drew his panga and silenced the noise with one quick stroke.
Reaching the pen, Ryan called out for the woman, but there was no reply. He tried again, but still nothing. Fireblast, she might have been knocked unconscious. Taking a torch from a bucket of tree resin, Jak lit it with his butane lighter and looked inside. The crackling torchlight brightly illuminated the small cramped hole. There was nobody in sight, and an open door led deeper underground. Soft light came through the opening from somewhere on the other side.
"They took them with them," Ryan growled, drawing his blaster. "Stand back."
Firing the SIG-Sauer twice, he blew off the lock and, kicking aside the wooden grating, Ryan jumped into the damp pit. He landed in a crouch and stayed that way, waiting for his eye to become adjusted to the darkness. Without warning, a screaming cannie rushed in through the doorway, brandishing a wooden club studded with human teeth. Ryan shot him in the belly, and the man doubled over, dropping the club and howling with pain, clutching his middle with both arms. Kicking the club out of reach, Ryan saved ammo and used the panga once more.
There was a shadow cast from overhead and Doc landed in the prison cell, an M-16 cradled in his arms. "Prudence dictates decorum," the scholar said, working the bolt on the rapidfire.
"Sweep it," Ryan ordered, jerking a thumb at the door.
Doc stuck the fluted barrel of the M-16 out of the doorway and fired a burst in both directions. Screams announced hits, and the two men charged out of the cell, blasters firing. Already wounded, the cannies waiting in ambush were aced in seconds, their flintlocks remaining unfired. Stooping, Ryan picked up two of the weapons and fired one, then screamed as if in pain and fired the other.
"That'll make them think we're wounded," he said, casting the spent blasters away. "They'll get brave, easier to chill."
"Exemplary, my dear Mr. Cawdor," Doc rumbled, tucking one of the ammo pouches from the dead into a pocket of his frock coat.
With catlike speed, Jak appeared from the cell with the second M-16. J.B. was right behind, the Uzi sweeping for targets. A spare ammo clip from the recovered munitions bag was tucked into his belt for fast access.
"What this?" Jak demanded, squinting in the dim light.
"Some sort of underground lair," Doc said. "Highly appropriate for eaters of the dead. Almost ironic."
The corridor walls were stacked rows of bamboo tucked into place behind thick wooden beams that supported a jigsaw of wooden pieces: roofing shingles, tabletops, decorative louvered doors, plywood, ship planks, anything that would serve as roofing. Every few yards, there was a niche in the wall with a clay bowl full of some greasy substance, a burning piece of cloth serving as a crude wick. The passageway extended to the left for only a short distance before ending at a mound of fresh-turned earth—the cave-in from the C-4 blast. The right ended at a sharp left turn. There was no noise or voices discernible, only the slow echoing drip of water striking stone from somewhere distant.
"Smells odd," Jak stated, crinkling his nose.
"They're burning human fat in the lamps," Ryan said grimly.
"Devs."
"Agreed."
"Well, leaving won't be a problem," Ryan stated, looking over the collapsed tunnel. "We can climb the cave-in and reach the ground easy."
"Indeed. As long as the folks on the other side don't dig their way out," Doc reminded him curtly. "Perhaps I should stay as rear guard, to prevent such an occurrence."
"Good idea," Ryan said. "Anybody with us when we came back, and I'll use code."
Hesitating for a moment, Doc offered the man the M-16, but he pushed it back. "You may need it," Ryan said, glancing at the ton of collapsed soil.
The scholar nodded. "Understood."
"Hey, what that?" Jak asked, retrieving a small piece of dirty cloth from the floor. It wasn't a wick for one of the candle bowls, or a used snot rag. On a hunch, he held it to the clothing of the dead men and it was completely different.
"This Ann?" the teenager asked, showing it to the others.
Ryan took the rag and looked it over closely. "Same color," he said thoughtfully. "And it has been ripped loose, not cut. Mebbe she's laying a trail for us to follow."
"Or a trap for us to walk blindly into," J.B. stated, straightening his glasses.
"Come on," Ryan said, advancing, "Let's find her and get out of here."
He took the point and crouched to sneak a peek around the corner of the tunnel. There was a long passageway beyond that stretched for yards before ending at another intersection. Rising, he led the way down the corridor, pausing at a dark section of earth that rose ever so slightly above the rest of the floor. Ryan scuffed his combat boot on the ground and detected a subtle movement under the newly turned soil. He fired twice into the ground. There was a muffled cry and blood began to ooze from the earth.
"Triple stupe," he stated coldly. "Old trick. Trader taught it to us over beers at Charlie's bar."
"Called it a Hanoi Handjob," J.B. added.
"No shit?" Jak asked nervously, brushing back his snowy hair. The cannies buried a man to wait like a land mine for one of them to step on, and then he'd attack. It was brilliant. The teenager now scrutinized the dirt floor and the jigsaw-puzzle ceiling much more closely for any additional living traps.
Reaching the intersection, the companions found the tunnel went in both directions for a good distance, the walls lined with doors. Most were unlocked and led to sleeping quarters for families, empty now. A few were locked, and contained clothing from the prisoners, one room packed to the ceiling with assorted boots. But no weapons.
Every corridor ended in another intersection, each branching out into more corridors and side passag
es. Closed doors lined the bamboo walls, and they had to check each one before risking to leave it behind them. It was slow going, and they worried about the cannies preparing another trap. The gray men were smart and ruthless, a dangerous combination.
"Place is a bastard maze," Ryan growled, using a pencil stub to draw a map of the tunnel on a piece of the lighthouse journal. He had kept the page because it showed the strange symbol from the gateway. He had hoped to ask some of the locals to see if they knew what it was. Now he simply needed it as paper. No way he was going to let them get lost down here for the cannies to trap and slowly starve them into submission. He'd rather take a round than go into a stew pot.
Another bit of rag led them to the left of an intersection. This corridor was dark, all of the wall lamps extinguished. Ryan nudged J.B. and motioned behind them. The Armorer nodded and passed the warning onto Jak. He silently agreed, then started down the darkened corridor as if unaware they were walking directly into a trap.
Almost at once, there came the slamming of a door, followed by the barks and howls of dogs. In unison, the three men turned and opened fire at the floor, the fusillade of rounds tearing the hounds to pieces, blowing away ears, legs and eyes. Only a large bitch managed to reach the men, bleeding but still alive. J.B. kicked its head into the wall, Jak used the butt of the M-16 to smash its jaw and Ryan buried a blade into its spine. Still snarling, the beast dropped and lay there heaving for breath, crippled but not dead.
"Couple more of those and we would have been on the last train west," Ryan stated, reloading the SIG-Sauer.
"Tough like hellhound," Jak said, checking the clip on the rapidfire.
"What's that?" J.B. asked.
"Big mutie in bayou. Tough kill."
J.B. pulled the clip and checked inside. "Ten left," he announced, slamming it back into the breech.
"Out," Jak said, dropping the rapidfire to draw his .357 Magnum pistol.
"See big black dog, shoot in eyes," he said cryptically, cocking the hammer with a callused thumb. "Just eyes. Not stop firing till say."
Using their butane lighters, they lit the lamps along the corridor but stopped when they found a piece of rag caught between a door and the jamb. J.B. checked for boobies, while Ryan and Jak stood guard. When satisfied it was safe, J.B. picked the old lock and got out of the way. Then Ryan kicked the door open without entering. Taking a lamp from the wall, he thrust it into the darkness. Dirty human faces stared back. People were sitting on the floor, and one of them stood to walk toward the light, a hand covering her face.
"You okay?" Ryan asked, looking her over for injuries that might slow her. The longer they stayed down here, the more time the cannies had to regroup. Time wasn't on their side.
"Ryan? You came!" Ann cried, then threw herself at the man, weeping uncontrollably.
Holding her by the shoulders, Ryan pushed the woman away and slapped her hard across the face. She recoiled in shock.
"Stay focused if you want to live," Ryan snapped. "We're up to our ass in dreck and low on ammo. Where's the ship?"
Ann blinked in confusion. "What?"
He squeezed her arm. Pain always made a person more aware. "Said you know where a ship was to be found. Tell me and we all leave together."
"There is—" Ann hiccuped with nerves and tried again "—there's a ville, on the far side of the island, past the Black Mountains. It's a port. Lots of ships dock there."
"You know the way," Ryan said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes! Of course, I do. Used to live before—"
"I know the way," someone said, hobbling to the doorway. He was a big man, gaunt from hunger, but his former strength was clearly visible in his sheer size. Black hair and almond skin, he was dressed in bloody and torn clothes of very good cloth. A wide leather belt around his waist proclaimed the man a sailor.
"Ann said you would come after her," he added. "Guess she was right."
"Here for her. Not you," Ryan said bluntly, and jerked a thumb. "Leave if you want. But don't follow us. Get in the way and you're zero days."
"I know the way through their pungi-stick wall," the man said, reaching out with his hand.
"The creek. Found it already."
The man lowered his gaze to the 9 mm pistol in Ryan's grip. "Then again, mebbe you don't need us," he said in awe. "Does that thing actually work?"
"It's how we got here," J.B. stated, lifting the Uzi for the prisoners to see. The men gasped at the sight, and backed away deeper into their cell.
"Stop talking. We have to leave!" Ann urged, impatiently moving from foot to foot. The motion made her dress sway and exposed a lot of skin. There had been little of the dress remaining before she started ripping off pieces. "They can come back any tic. Hundreds of them!"
"Who the hell are you?" Ryan demanded, ignoring the interruption. Every minute wasted was ammo against them. But with more men they had a better chance of reaching the surface alive—if he could trust the prisoners not to throw the companions to the cannies to slow down pursuit. Better to travel alone than with enemies.
"I'm Cal Mitchum, sec man for Baron Thayer of Ratak ville. That's the ville she was talking about on the far side of the island. There's more, but they're rad-pit dreck holes, without a single working blaster or a tin pot to piss in. But you want a ship, you got it. Just take us with you."
"Big words. You got the powder to deliver that lead?" Ryan asked. The SIG-Sauer was still in his hand, the barrel pointing steadily at the stranger.
The others in the room stared longingly at the open doorway, but the dead black eye of Ryan's blaster kept them at bay.
"Fucking right I do! I'll get you a ship if I've got to steal one," Mitchum stated forcibly.
He was too confident, too sure of himself, Ryan decided and took a chance. "Major, behind you!" he shouted, and pointed the blaster away from the sec man.
Mitchum spun, hands reaching for a blaster not there. Then he turned, his face a controlled mask of rage.
"Tricky bastard. Okay, I'm Colonel Mitchum," he stated through grit teeth. "Sec chief for Ratak ville."
"Ryan," the Deathlands warrior said, "J.B. and Jak."
"The rest of the prisoners are my troops. Can't leave them behind."
"Can and will," Ryan stated firmly. "Unless I decide they're useful."
"Need them to get me," Mitchum shot back.
A noise echoed down the corridor, and Jak moved out of sight.
"They're coming back!" Ann whispered. "We must leave now!"
"Do we have a deal?" the sec man insisted, sweat on his brow.
Ryan knew he was negotiating for the lives of his troops. That said a lot about the man. "Deal," Ryan said.
Relief easing his countenance, Mitchum exhaled. He extended his hand, and the men shook.
"Everybody start walking," Ryan ordered. "We have horses at the surface. Lag behind and we leave you, deal or not."
The companions herded the freed prisoners along the corridor, carefully retracing their steps. Ryan was very glad he had made a map. The scraps of cloth had been moved to new locations and they would have been seriously lost following those.
Rounding a corner, Ryan and Jak opened fire as a gang of teenagers burst out of a room, their arms full of flintlocks. The teens cried out as the SIG-Sauer and Colt Python took their lives, displaying their sharply filed teeth. Bleeding badly, a girl tried to bring a weapon to bear, but J.B. emptied the Uzi into her, driving the body backward under the brutal assault of the copper-jacketed rounds.
Stepping over the twitching bodies, Ryan checked the room they had come from and saw it was an armory. Big wooden barrels of black powder filled the room, wall racks held dozens of flintlock rifles and a barrel was jammed full of Navy cutlasses. The cannies had to have eaten a lot of pirates. Good for them. Ryan smiled as he noticed a couple of Firebirds on display, the lacquered tubes resting on wooden pegs jutting from the wall for fast access. He debated taking one, but the risk of their being booby-trapped was far too great
. It's what he would have done, and he always had to consider what the enemy could do, not what they might. However, the flintlocks should be safe.
"Everybody grab a blaster and ammo," Ryan said, taking a pistol and tucking it into his belt. There was a post covered with short pegs, plump ammo pouches hanging conveniently near the door. Whoever the cannie quartermaster was, he knew his stuff.
"Flintlocks?" Jak said, arching an eyebrow.
"Take spares for Doc, and the others also," he added.
"Camou. Gotcha," J.B. said, his face brightening in understanding, and he shoved several hand-cannons into his munitions bag. Next he added a coiled length of dried grass as a fuse. Then he spied the S&W M-4000 shotgun on a table. Reclaiming his alley-sweeper, J.B. checked the weapon to make sure it was okay, then draped it over a shoulder. Back in business.
The sec men eagerly armed themselves, passing over a few of the flintlocks to take others. Mitchum tested the black powder by licking some from a palm, and nodded in approval. Trained hands loaded their weapons in amazing speed, and the group exited the armory with longblasters in their hands, and two handcannons tucked into every belt.
J.B. was the last to leave the room, and he spent a few moments breaking the lock on the door. Then he jammed a copper knife blade into the jamb and snapped off the handle.
"Wouldn't open that easily," he smirked, tossing the handle away.
"How long?" Ryan asked.
"Roughly minutes. It's not my fuse, so I can't know for sure. Might be eight, could be twelve."
"Fair enough. Everybody, double time!" Ryan shouted, and took off at a run.
The group hustled through the zigzagging corridors, encountering no resistance until reaching the last intersection. Two cannies were dragging away the pile of dead dogs on a bamboo litter. The men dropped the animals and hastily ran away at the sight of the heavily armed party. Ruthlessly, the prisoners gunned down the cannies from behind, and spit on the corpses as they hurried by.
