Prodigal's Return

by James Axler

  “Gone,” Jak announced, resting the M-16 on a shoulder. “Got locomotive. Pulled out fast.”

  “There’s a railroad track in the next hollow?” Ryan demanded, raising his left arm high, then inhaling sharply at the application of the stringent antiseptic.

  “Dried riverbed,” J.B. said, resting a boot on a rock and tilting back his fedora. “They have the damn steam engine of a railroad locomotive mounted on truck tires. Sort of a steam truck. Got a troop carriage, too. Modified an old Mack truck trailer.”

  “Always go with the Bulldog.”

  “Nothing wrong with a Peterbuilt,” J.B. said, kicking at the grass. “Good thing the ground here is too soft for that nuking big engine, and they had to send in the sandhogs. Or else they could have simply smashed through those wooden wags with the locomotive and then gone through the pieces, picking out what they wanted.”

  Ryan grimaced. “Like getting the meat out of walnuts.”

  “Yon dastardly Visigoths also possess a plethora of heavy ordnance,” Doc added lugubriously, holstering the LeMat. “Several .50-caliber machine guns, and I believe there was a bazooka or three ensconced inside the car.”

  “LAW rocket launchers,” Krysty stated, her hair curling around her face. “Those are much more deadly than a bazooka.”

  Doc bowed. “I stand corrected, madam.”

  “If we had gone over the slope, we’d all be on…well, on the last train west,” J.B. said. “You catching some lead saved our asses, and that’s a fact.”

  “So it would seem,” Ryan said, his eye narrowing. “Any sign of Dea… Did you see my longblaster?”

  “The Remington is busted, lover,” Krysty said, squatting on her heels. “The BAR fires a .308 round, but it hits like a sledgehammer. Would have done the same to you if Dean had used a triburst.”

  “Good shot. He miss on purpose,” Jak stated, slinging the Galil rapidfire across his chest.

  “Just wish I knew why he felt it was necessary,” Ryan grumbled, then turned his head. “Is that an Israeli 5.56 mm Tavor?”

  “Please stop moving until I have this stitched!” Mildred said, laying aside a needle and thread to mop the oozing wound clean again.

  With a scowl, Ryan did as instructed.

  “No, this Galil,” Jak said, proffering the rapidfire. “Want? Prefer M-16.”

  “Just until I get some more 7.62 mm brass for the Steyr,” Ryan said, looking at the ground.

  “No prob,” Jak replied, placing the rapidfire at that spot, along with a couple of magazines.

  Her hands moving steadily, Mildred sutured the wound closed, the upholstery needle curving into the torn flesh and back up again, dragging along the blue nylon fishing line.

  “Is there any more ammo in that bag, my dear Jak?” Doc asked hopefully. “My M-16 is as empty as the pockets of a Union Army bummer.”

  “Sure, lots! Brass the same as M-16, but different mags. Gotta swap.”

  Doc smiled. “Yes, I know.”

  “Has anybody considered the possibility that it wasn’t Dean?” J.B. asked, looking over the battlefield of the hollow. “You haven’t exactly lived the life of a eunuch, old buddy, and we’ve encountered clones before, too. Could be either of those.”

  “Not to mention that palliardic rapscallion Delphi,” Doc added with a dark scowl. “The bedamned cyborg could remove his face and put on another easier than changing his shoes!”

  “We ace,” Jak reminded him.

  “True. But where there was one cyborg, there could easily be two.”

  Chewing his lip, Jak frowned at the unpleasant idea. It had taken everything they had, plus some help from friends, to put Delphi into the dirt. They might not be so fortunate next time.

  “What do you think, lover?” Ryan asked, without looking up.

  “It was Dean,” Krysty replied, taking a couple of spare magazines for herself. “Just for an instant, I could sense his presence. It was uncanny.”

  “From that distance?”

  “He was a caldron of powerful emotions…pretty much the same as you are now.” She rested a hand on his good arm. “I’m sure he didn’t want to shoot you, and we both know that Dean is a good enough shot to have blown your head off if that was his intention.”

  “He is a Cawdor,” Ryan said, almost managing a smile, but failing. A wild mixture of emotions filled him, betrayal, hope, fear, and others too complex to name.

  A series of hard thumps echoed across the hollow, and several thick wooden doors opened in the wags. Armed people stepped down, their muskets and flintlock handblasters sweeping the area for any possible dangers.

  “My guess would be that the coldhearts have Sharona a prisoner,” Mildred said, snipping off the fishing line and tying the end in a neat knot. “He obeys, or they ace her.”

  “If that is true, it would mean that we now have two people to rescue,” Doc said, resting the butt of the M-16 on a hip. “If not more.”

  “How do you figure that?” J.B. asked.

  Placing the soiled items into a plastic salad bowl, Mildred washed and dried her hands, then did the same to Ryan’s chest, removing as much of the dried blood as possible to stem off any infections.

  “It has been a few years since Dean was among us. The boy is now a young man. Ergo, he may have a family of his own. A wife.”

  At that last word, Ryan went very still and said nothing as Mildred started to wrap his chest with a clean white cloth in lieu of a proper bandage.

  “When find coldheart camp, we ask,” Jak stated confidently.

  “Bet your ass we will,” Ryan said softly, a smile briefly flickering into existence before vanishing just as fast.

  Briskly snapping off orders, two men began directing the rest of the travelers. Soon a band of heavily armed scouts dashed off to set up a sentry line on the crest of the two slopes, and some large men wearing leather aprons freed the aced horses, to then drag away the bodies, hang them from a tree branch and begin gutting them and cleaning the meat.

  Meanwhile, women carrying toolboxes began hasty repairs on the damaged wooden slats of the wags, while some older people scavenged among the aced coldhearts for anything useful. Boots, brass, blasters, gun belts—everything went into wicker baskets to be hauled away by the children. Teenagers equipped with shovels gathered the chilled travelers and started to dig shallow graves. Completely ignored, the naked coldhearts were left on the cold ground.

  “Okay, you’re done,” Mildred said, critically inspecting the battlefield dressing. “Just no sudden moves or heavy lifting for a few days, or those stitches will pop, and I’ll have to start all over again. This time with a dull needle.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Ryan said, getting his spare shirt from his backpack. “Jak and Doc, get the horses. Unless the leader of this convoy is a feeb, they’re going to be moving again in double-quick time. We don’t want to be left behind.”

  Nodding, the two companions dashed off through the crowd of busy people. The children shied away from the armed strangers, but the sentries gave casual salutes in passing.

  “Okay, let’s go talk with our new employers,” Ryan said, tucking in the shirt and flaring the collar.

  “Employers?” J.B. frowned, rising to his feet. “We hiring on as mercies? Ah, to wait for the next attack by the coldhearts!”

  “There’s no chance they’re not going to come back for another try,” Ryan stated, slinging the Galil over his good shoulder and stuffing the spare magazines into his pants pockets.

  “This convoy has way too much of their iron to let it pass unmolested,” Krysty said in somber agreement.

  “Not to mention the little matter of twenty or so dead coldhearts to avenge,” Mildred added, closing her med kit. “Think you can get us the job as outriders?”

  “That shouldn’t be much of a problem,” Ryan said, massaging the bandage over his ribs and starting forward. “Since I already cut a deal with them.”

  As the companions approached the two leaders of the bustling
throng of travelers, the people turned from inspecting a sandhog. The man nodded in greeting, while the woman did her best not to openly scowl.

  “Nice to see you folks still sucking air,” he said, stroking his beard. “We didn’t have time for any names before. The name is Crane, Alan Crane. They call me Big Al, but never to my face, and I’m the leader of this caravan.”

  Why the man had that moniker was clearly obvious. He towered over any of the other travelers by nearly a foot, his massive body more reminiscent of a grizzly bear than a man. Long golden hair seemed to merge with his mustache and beard, almost making him appear to be a barb, but his clothes were clean, and the rawhide gun belt around his waist was in good condition, the pouches heavy with powder and shot, the flintlocks shiny with oil. A knife jutted from his left boot, a plain wooden ’rang was tucked behind his belt buckle and the curved handle of what looked like a Japanese samurai sword rose from behind his right shoulder.

  “I’m Cordelia Johnson, the sec boss,” the woman stated with a noted mark of pride. “Della to my friends, which you ain’t yet.”

  She was of average height, bustier than Krysty and with even darker skin than Mildred. Her curly hair was closely cropped, and there was a scar across her cheek marring her handsome features. The tiny row of double circles clearly showed where a stickie had gotten hold, and she had managed to get the chilling hand to release it before it removed her face. The sec woman was covered with blasters, with a .63 flintlock on each hip, two more in crude shoulder holsters, a flare gun tucked behind a bronze belt buckle and a .78 musket draped across her back.

  Briefly, Ryan made introductions.

  “How are the unconscious folks doing?” Mildred asked, hefting her med kit.

  “Don’t know yet,” Cordelia stated. “We can’t get inside without chopping a hole in the armor.” She squinted. “They’re only asleep, not aced?”

  “That’s very likely, given the ventilation of those blasterports,” Mildred replied, studying the closest wag. “I’m a healer. Those jugs were most likely filled with something called ether. When I have some, I use it in surgery so that the patient doesn’t go crazy from the pain. Ether knocks you out quickly, but only lasts as long as there’s a constant supply. As soon as you stop applying it to the patient, or the fumes dissipate—”

  A door creaked open on one of the silent wags, and a blinking man staggered to the threshold, only to drunkenly stumble and fall to the ground. Quickly, people rushed over to help, one woman sticking her head into the wag. She came right back out again. Gasping for breath, she limply dropped onto her rear end and clutched her head in both hands.

  “Holy skydark, they look like jolt addicts on a bender,” Alan muttered with a frown. “Anything we can do for them?”

  “Fresh air will do fine,” Mildred stated. “Although some strong coffee sub wouldn’t hurt if you have any.”

  “Nope, they’ll have to make do with air,” Cordelia replied curtly. Then she added, “Willow bark tea any good?”

  “Even better! That’s a natural analgesic…a natural painkiller, similar to aspirin,” Mildred finished lamely.

  “Yeah, she’s a healer, all right. Half of what she says don’t mean squat to regular folk.” Alan chuckled, giving a crooked smile. “You and Dewitt are going to get along just fine.”

  “Dewitt. Is that your healer?”

  “Good one, too. A real artist with a knife.” He glanced over at a bald man kneeling in the mud, slitting the throat of a coldheart, then taking his boots.

  “That ether stuff, that what she use on you?” Cordelia asked, indicating the fresh bandages.

  “Just shine and fishing line,” Ryan said, inadvertently rhyming.

  “Yeah, got some of that in me, too,” Cordelia muttered, rubbing her leg.

  “You could have a couple of people fan the blasterports with blankets,” Krysty suggested. “That should rouse the rest of your people quick enough.”

  “That so?” Cordelia asked suspiciously.

  “Brass in your blaster, friend.”

  “Well, I’m old enough to know the spring water from piss,” Alan drawled. “So I reckon that’s pure quill. Take care of it, will ya, Della?”

  “Yes, Alan. Be right back,” she replied, slowly walking away, as if unwilling to let the companions out of her sight.

  “That woman doesn’t trust her own shadow,” Alan said, watching her leave.

  “That just makes her a good sec chief,” J.B. stated. “Why does she carry so many blasters?”

  “Ask her sometime. It’s a real good story,” Alan said, turning again. “Well, I see you’ve already started gathering your share of the blasters. Fair enough, a deal is a deal.” He frowned. “Don’t think you’re gonna get any working sandhogs, though. You folks were kind of rough on the previous owners.”

  “Not a problem. We have horses,” Ryan said with a shrug. He immediately regretted the motion as a sharp pain stabbed his side. “Which way are you folks heading?”

  “Nor’east, toward Centralia,” Alan said, squinting. “Why do you want to know?”

  “We’d like to ride along some, if you don’t mind.”

  “Safety in numbers,” Krysty added sagely.

  “Not always,” Alan countered with a grimace, looking at the grave diggers. “We got a dozen wags and a hundred folks, most of them with working blasters, and those damn coldhearts shoved us into a nuking meat grinder. Must have lost fifteen. All of them friends, and kin.”

  The companions said nothing, letting the man make up his mind. The trickiest part of any negotiation was knowing when to speak and when to shut up.

  Crossing his huge arms, Alan frowned. “You folks any good with blasters, or did those rapidfires just throw so much lead at the coldhearts that they caught some by accident?”

  “Better than most,” Ryan said honestly.

  “Della, think they’ll do as outriders?”

  “Well, they helped out,” Cordelia sniffed, ambling back. “I saw some of you shoot. Can all of you people shoot good?”

  “Just ask,” Krysty countered, jerking her chin.

  Turning, Alan and Cordelia looked up the western slope to see two men riding over the crest, leading four more horses.

  Studying them, Cordelia noted with satisfaction that they both looked tougher than a boiled Army tank, and carried their longblasters with the calm assurance of seasoned chillers. There was something odd about the younger man, and she couldn’t quite figure out what it was, until she realized that he had to be hiding something up his sleeves. Probably knives. Yeah, he had the look of a blade master. Hmm, good-looking and lethal. That was a nice combination.

  “They’ll do,” Cordelia said, hitching up her gun belt.

  “Then it’s settled,” Alan declared, spreading his arms. “You’re hired. We can offer hot food for the journey, shine if you want, plus a slice of anything we find along the way. But you sleep outside. Nobody goes inside a wag but my people.”

  “We look like spring water,” J.B. translated, “but might still be piss.”

  “Close enough,” Alan said, tugging on his mustache to hide a grin. “Now, there are six of you, so loot six bodies. Everything else goes into the war chest. We’ll be going past Cobalt Lake, and that’s bad mutie country.”

  “I’ll send you a note when I get frightened,” Ryan said, deadpan.

  “You’re a card, One-eye, sure enough.” Alan laughed, then stopped, suddenly noticing the odd motion of Krysty’s hair. He started to say something, then obviously changed his mind. “Anyway, just don’t take too long. We bury our friends, then we leave.”

  Somewhere in the far distance, a steam whistle loudly keened, the strident noise echoing through the multiple hollows until it seemed to be coming from every direction.

  “Agreed. Just stay on soft ground and away from any bedrock or dried riverbeds,” Ryan advised. “The coldhearts have a monster war wag along with those sandhogs, but it’s too heavy to roll on soft dirt.”

>   “Good to know,” Cordelia replied, resting a hand on a flintlock. “The sooner we’re out of this half-ass valley and in some open countryside, the better.”

  “You got that right,” Alan grunted, kicking his horse into a gentle trot. “Better get busy. We move in thirty!”

  “Ten would have made me happier,” J.B. said, pulling out a knife and testing the edge on the ball of his thumb.

  “Okay, everybody knows the drill,” Ryan added, drawing the panga and heading toward a corpse. “Let’s go looking for supplies!”

  DEAD LEAVES sprinkled down from the withering trees as the howler moved through the forest glen. As the glowing cloud touched them in passing, birds and other small animals tumbled from the branches to land on the crispy earth, feebly twitching, and then going horribly still.

  In the far distance, a wolf howled loudly, sounding the alarm to the rest of the pack that death was approaching. Oddly, that made the howler pause for a long moment for some unknown reason. Then it continued on once more, never flagging in its hunt for the hated two-legs. The prey had switched from their not-live-thing to horses, but their spoor was unmistakable, even when mixed with the smell of the other two-legs, and then the dried blood of the four-legs-that-were-not-wolves.

  Feeling a vibration on the surface, an underground feeder lashed out blindly with a dozen tentacles, the spiked limbs attempting to sink their hooks into the tender flesh of a two-leg, or even better, a bear. That was food for a week!

  But at the first contact, agonizing pain surged through the feeder, and it quickly tried to release the unseen food. However, its tentacles wouldn’t come off, and the feeder felt itself being bodily hauled up through the loose dirt toward the surface.

  In blind terror, the mutie fought back, thrashing wildly, but it was useless, and soon the subterranean dweller was out of its burrow and being dragged helpless across the ground.

  At the sight of the glowing green cloud, the feeder redoubled its attacks, then threw itself toward the unknown thing, wrapping every tentacle tight, trying to squeeze the life out of this new enemy. The ghastly pain steadily increased, but the feeder never ceased to struggle, and wrapped two of its smaller tentacles around a nearby tree as an anchor.