Gaia's Demise

by James Axler

  "Holy shit," a corporal whispered, and another turned away to noisily retch.

  Fists clenched, both of his hearts wildly pounding, Sheffield fought down the urge to stay where he was. But the man knew better than to demonstrate any weakness in front of the his subordinates. Victory or death. Boldly he walked from behind the transport.

  "There are the intruders!" he bellowed, thrusting an arm toward the nearby hills. "Send out every man we have, use the dogs and the Bell. Find them! The man who chills them will be promoted to major and serve as my right hand. No prisoners, do you understand me? I want them dead. No prisoners!"

  "Yes, sir!" the sergeant replied. Although visibly shaken, he managed a salute and started off at a run already shouting orders. The rest of the sec men closely followed, the excitement of the possible promotion wiping the shock and fear from their faces.

  "You!" Sheffield barked, pointing at the sec man in charge of the transformer. "Turn the circuits off!"

  Hesitantly, the blue shirt obeyed and, bracing for a shock, he threw the insulated switch. There was a snap of power, and the hum of the bus bars softly faded, but the huge copper coils continued to faintly crackle with the secondary effects of recharging the accumulators.

  Moving quickly, Sheffield retrieved the disk and shoved it into a pocket. "Back on," he snapped impatiently, walking around the transformer until the southern hills were no longer in sight.

  "Power is restored, sir!" the sec man shouted, excited at still being alive. "Should I summon some slaves to clean up…ah, gather the remains?"

  "That won't be necessary," Sheffield said coolly. Drawing a handblaster, he aimed at the blue shirt and fired.

  Shrieking in agony, the sec man fell to the ground, clutching his groin, dark blood flowing across his clothes. Ruthlessly, Sheffield fired again and again, first removing fingers, then other small body parts until the slide of his blaster kicked back, showing it was out of ammo. Reloading, the major started again, dissecting the man alive, until blood loss made the tattered lump of human flesh stop making noises and go unconscious.

  Placing the weapon against the forehead of the gurgling thing on the ground, he paused, then thumbed the safety back on.

  "No, you die slow," the major stated, holstering the blaster. "Unlike Silas, I don't tolerate failure."

  Walking briskly to the lab, the new baron of the ville placed his palm on the wall plate, and waited anxiously until it chimed and unlocked the door. Hurrying inside, Sheffield stared through the Plexiglas windows at the sloping hills encircling the complex.

  "Better start running, Ryan," he said softly, almost in a whisper. "Because you're next."

  Chapter Twenty

  "Let's go," Ryan said, standing. Working the bolt on the Steyr SSG-70, he opened the breech to remove the spent clip and slid in a fresh magazine.

  "Did you get him?" Dean asked, shading his eyes with a hand. Sirens started to howl, something was on fire, sending black smoke wafting into the sky, and sec men seemed to be rushing about madly. The electric lights in the guard towers flickered, died away completely, then came back on again.

  "Silas is dead," Ryan replied, easing the bolt home and starting up the slope.

  "Can't get much more dead," Krysty agreed, walking alongside him. "He's gone forever."

  "I am only sorry I did not get to pull the trigger," Doc replied, staring backward at the busy ville.

  "Put a few rounds into the transformer, too. But I missed the chief sec man," Ryan said, stopping at the ridge and cupping his hands. "Bastard moved fast."

  Krysty stepped into his grip, and he boosted her up onto the higher ground. Then she grabbed his arms and helped him climb the steep embankment.

  Uzi at the ready, J.B. watched the hillside as the rest of the companions assisted one another, then Ryan covered him as the wiry Armorer scrambled up on his own.

  "Any chance they can know the shots came from this direction?" Mildred asked worriedly, as they started quickly for the trees. She would feel a lot safer once they gained some cover.

  "No way," Ryan replied, striding along. "I could have taken that shot from anywhere in the valley."

  Just then, J.B. sneezed in warning and the companions went flat, shifting for cover in the stubby grass. A few seconds later, a sec man in a blue shirt walked out of the pine trees with an AK-47 cradled in his arms. The man gasped at the sight of the armed companions and swung the barrel of his blaster toward them. But there was a low cough, the blue shirt fell to the ground, shook and went still.

  A wisp of smoke still clinging to the muzzled of the silenced 9 mm SIG-Sauer, Ryan crossed to the corpse and shot it again to make sure the man was dead. Eagerly, Dean claimed the Kalashnikov and the spare ammo. Krysty took the radio.

  "We can monitor their communications with this," she said, inspecting the device. "Help us avoid any more patrols." The radio was turned on so the sentry could receive reports or instructions. She adjusted the volume to its lowest setting, so as to not give away their position. Ryan glanced at the walkie-talkie. "Air Force model," he stated. "Very short range, these days even shorter. Probably reduced to line of sight."

  "Unless they use that big antenna," Doc suggested, entering the woods. Immediately, he felt better with some protective cover around them.

  Shifting her med kit, Mildred shook her head, her beaded locks bouncing wildly. "The dish antenna would have to be pointed in the correct direction. Think of it as a radio cannon. It's got to be pointed right at whom they want to talk with."

  "Useless," Jak grunted, stepping over a fallen willow tree.

  Ducking under a bristly pine branch, Dean asked, "We heading for the redoubt?"

  "First we cross the river," his father answered. "For once those land mines will work for us. No APC or Hummer can follow."

  "Sounds good," Krysty said. Just then, the speaker of the walkie-talkie crackled loudly. "Sentry Twenty-four, any sign of the intruders?" a male voice asked.

  The companions paused as Krysty pulled the device into view and the radio blared, "What is your status, Twenty-four? Are you in trouble?"

  "Gaia, he means us," Krysty stated, turning off the radio with a click. "Ryan, J.B., did either of you see any female sec men?"

  "Hell, no," Ryan growled.

  She shoved the radio into his hands. "Then you answer quick, or else they'll know where we are."

  He chewed a lip for a moment, then turned the radio back on. There came a burst of static. "—entry Twenty-four, where are you?"

  Coughing raggedly, Ryan fumbling with the volume. "Raiders…" he gasped weakly into the transmitter. "Gut shot…hurts bad!" Ryan knew there was nothing more painful than a gunshot wound in the belly. He once saw a coldheart stab himself to stop the agony. Any differences in his voice and that of the younger sec man would be attributed to the terrible pain.

  Biting his tongue not to speak, J.B. started rummaging inside his munitions bag.

  "Where are you, man?" the radio asked urgently. "What's your location?"

  Holding up the map from Georgia, J.B. pointed at the scrawl at the bottom.

  Nodding in comprehension, Ryan panted heavily, "Q-quarry…"

  A crackle of static. "Shit-fire! Was it muties? Tanner?"

  Doc arched an eyebrow, but held his peace.

  Coughing some more, Ryan whispered, "Fifty… coming…your way…"

  "How fucking many?" the sec man yelled, distorting the words.

  Exhaling as if dying, Ryan released the transmit button and tossed the radio back to Krysty. She made sure it was turned off and tucked the device into a pocket of her bearskin coat.

  "That bought us a few minutes," Ryan said. "They'll have to check the quarry before doing anything else, just in case this was a real report."

  "More than enough time," J.B. agreed, heading into the bushes.

  "Fifty," Jak said. "Smart. Send all troops."

  Parting some bushes with the barrel of his longblaster, Ryan grunted in reply. "That was the idea."
>
  The sun was starting to set as the companions moved out of the band of trees. Crouching, they looked for guards, but the river and bridge seemed to be clear. Running across the bridge in pairs, the companions took refuge in the forest on the other side and waited to see if there was any signs of pursuit. The forest and river were placid and calm.

  "We're in the clear," Mildred stated confidently. "Come on, I'll feel better once we are inside the redoubt and have a few feet of steel between us and the blues."

  "Wait," Krysty said, tilting her head toward the river. "Motorcycles are coming our way, six, mebbe seven."

  "Can't be after us," J.B. stated. "Must be going toward that quarry."

  "Mebbe," Ryan said, "but we'd better make sure. Everybody take positions behind the trees."

  There was a roar of engines, and a group of sleek motorcycles rolled into view along the riverbank. The riders sat inside a roll cage, an array of steel bars forming a barrier around the men, affording them tremendous protection from being clubbed or having an enemy leap on the bikes. The bars were black, but the welds were shiny. Clearly the cages were a recent addition to the machines. All of the sec men were armed with squat Ingram M-10 machine pistols, instead of the usual Kalashnikovs. The boxy blasters would be easy to wield while inside the safety cage, unlike the long barreled AK-47. Bandoliers of ammo clips hung across their chests, and each had a radio strapped to the gas tank between their legs.

  Slowing at the bridge, the pack split roughly in two, three continuing toward the quarry, four rolling across the bridge. The two-wheelers separated quickly, moving to the farthest edge of the bridge, staying as far away from the midspan as possible. As they entered the woods at a crawl, branches hit the cages and snapped off at the trunks as the machines proceeded along the dirt path.

  Suddenly, leaves erupted from the ground as Ryan fired his silenced weapon. A blue shirt cried out and slumped onto the handlebars. Stepping out from behind a tree, Jak jerked his arm and another sec man clutched at the knife in his throat. Ryan fired again, just as the third biker drew his M-10. The SIG-Sauer won that contest, and the dead man slammed against the protective cage, making the riderless bike topple to the ground.

  The fourth sec man cursed as he fought to free the strap of his subgun, which was tangled with the lock on the cage. Shouting in rage, he walked his bike around in a circle, and twisted the handlebar throttle, preparing to run when Doc circled around a nearby tree and deftly thrust his sword between the iron bars directly into the driver's left eye.

  Releasing the sword, Doc watched as the sec man stayed frozen in position, his dying brain no longer able to relay commands. The bike rolled on for another few yards, then bumped into a bush and stopped moving, the engine softly rumbling, faint blue exhaust blowing from the chrome mufflers.

  Going to the trapped motorcycle, Doc placed a boot on the cage and yanked his sword free. The corpse jerked upright at the action as if renewed with life, then it slumped over, releasing the handlebars, and the engine died in perfect harmony.

  Rushing out of hiding, the rest of the companions converged on the fallen machines, turning off engines before the hot casings set the dry leaves on fire. Extracting the drivers proved to be no problem. The safety cages had curved doors that locked with a simple sliding bar from the inside. The companions placed the corpses in a pile, and J.B. slid a wad of C-4 and a pressure switch under the top corpse.

  "Four bikes," Ryan said, checking over the M-10. The bolt was stiff from poor cleaning, but it seemed in operational condition. "We have to balance this carefully. Dean with Jak, Mildred with J.B., Doc with Krysty. I'll ride with the backpacks." The companions quickly piled their backpacks onto Ryan's machine, then joined their partners. Setting the ignition switch, Mildred waited until J.B. was in position before kicking the big Harley into life. The 1450 cc engine purred with barely restrained power. Twisting the handlebar throttle, the woman gunned the engine a few times to clear the carbs, and rolled over to the others.

  Krysty turned on the radio attached to her bike and heard only the hiss and crackle of static. "Odd," she muttered, checking the radio in her pocket. It was also silent. "They should be talking about the quarry by now."

  "Mebbe they already figure it was a trick," Dean suggested, one arm around Jak's waist, the other holding an M-10 machine pistol. The boy knew it was a crappy blaster. The stubby two-inch barrel gave no real accuracy over any distance. However, the yard-long AK-47 was impossible to use while inside the cage, especially riding behind another person, and the subgun could shoot faster than his Browning Hi-Power.

  "Could be," Ryan agreed, tapping the fuel gauge. Half-full, more than enough. "If so, they're going to come after us in force. Night will be here soon, so we'll stay in the trees until it's dark, then make a run for the redoubt across the grasslands."

  "I'll take rearguard," J.B. said, the Uzi in one hand, the M-10 in the other. He was sitting reversed on the seat with his back to Mildred, legs braced against the lower bars of the cage, the buddy-bar snug between his thighs.

  Dean changed position to copy the older man. The chrome steel of the buddy-bar rose to his chest and was very uncomfortable, but the stance gave him a good purchase to fight from. That was good enough.

  "Mehi loricatus oportet occulte!" Doc stated in Latin, holstering the LeMat and tying down the flap. His hands clumsily worked the arming bolt on the subgun, and he eased off the safety.

  "No headlights," Mildred translated. "Bastards can't hit what they can't find."

  Starting forward into the growing darkness, Ryan zigzagged the big bike past the lush growths of pine and willow. "Just shoot anybody you see," he added grimly, bent low over the handlebars. "They won't be trying to take us prisoners anymore."

  IN THE LAB, Sheffield was awkwardly typing commands on the computer keyboard. Impatiently, he watched the vector graphic grow and change on the softly glowing screen. Checking the assignment integers, the man cursed in frustration when he realized that the numbers were wrong. It was aimed much too close to risk a shot. Now he would have to start all over again!

  "Good news, sir!" said a voice from the intercom on the desk. "We got a report that the outlanders are at the quarry."

  "The quarry?" he repeated slowly. "Who told you this?"

  "A sentry reported in just before he died. We're sending most of the troops there."

  "Recall them immediately," the officer commanded. "It's a trick to divert us. Send everybody to the south. That's where they really are."

  Pursing his lips, Sheffield then continued, "The troops have a maximum of forty minutes to find the assassins of Dr. Jamaisvous, then recall them immediately."

  "Sir?" the intercom asked puzzled.

  "Just do as you're ordered, trooper."

  "Yes, sir! Hail the New America!"

  Cutting off the intercom, Sheffield returned to his work. Starting the programming cycle again, he typed much more carefully, and a slow smile grew as the flashing numbers on the computer screen began to take on the desired configuration.

  THE QUARTET OF BIKES raced across the open fields of Tennessee bluegrass. Headlights off, it was difficult to see anything in the way, and Ryan often found himself jerking the handlebars at the very last moment to avoid hitting a large rock or some other obstacle. However, it was a good half hour since they stole the motorcycles, and they were more than halfway to the redoubt.

  "How close are we?" Krysty shouted, her hair streaming in the wind.

  "Just a few more miles!" J.B. yelled in reply.

  "Great!"

  "My dear Krysty, can you do something about your hair, please?" Doc asked. "I can barely see!"

  Grabbing handfuls, she stuffed the living tendrils gently into her shirt collar and did the top button. "Better?" she shouted over a shoulder.

  "Infinitely so. My thanks!"

  "No prob!"

  Suddenly, bright lights illuminated the field in bouncing cones of stark white light, and there came the slow chattering of s
ubguns. A copper-jacketed round zinged off the safety cage around Doc and Krysty, another bullet slamming directly into the backpacks behind Ryan.

  "It's other bikes!" he shouted, and slapped a switch, turning on his own headlights. Now able to see clearly, the man pressed the big motorcycle on to much greater speeds. The ground flashed below the wheels in a constant blur. With Ryan cutting the way, the others also increased their speed and pulled away from the oncoming motorcycles.

  "Ace the leader!" J.B. shouted, cutting loose with the Uzi and subgun. Targeting the closest headlight, he put a long burst from the blasters just above the jiggling light source. There was a crash of glass, and the Harley veered off abruptly, then hit something and flipped over. Tumbling out of control, the bike rolled over and over, the screaming sec man trapped inside the cage bouncing about like a boneless rag doll.

  Doc and Dean did the same, and another bike fell. Instantly, the other two drivers turned off their halogen headlights, and soon the noise of their engines could no longer be heard.

  "Easy as pie," Dean said triumphantly. "Keep going!" Ryan shouted over the roar of the Harley. "That was too easy. It's a trick to make us slow down!"

  "Trap ahead?" Krysty yelled.

  "Could be! Everybody, stay sharp!"

  The noise started soft and low, a distant beating of drums. But it quickly increased in tempo and volume until a steady whomping sound was heard, and the companions craned their necks about to find the source. Unexpectedly, a dark shape swooped by overhead, silhouetted by the lightning flashes in the rumbling storm clouds.

  "That's a bastard helicopter!" Ryan growled, buffeted by the wind of its passage. The chopper was the first flying machine the Deathlands warrior had ever seen. Silas had to have found the mother lode of all redoubts to loot. Maybe even a Deep Storage locker!

  The Trader told stories around the campfires about predark vaults full of dry nitrogen gas, the temperature lowered to below freezing. Designed to keep ammo and food fresh for hundreds of years, Deep Storage lockers were supposed to be fully stocked with everything. Not the occasional box of ammo or handful of MRE packs, but literally tons of food, tanks, missiles and enough ammo and blasters for the predark Army. Silas with a Deep Storage locker—that would explain a lot.