by James Axler
However, the bark crumbled away from its touch, and the plant visibly withered as the cloud expanded to fill the quiet forest glen. With a splintering noise, the tree broke apart, and the startled feeder was bodily hauled into the searing mist.
Even as its skin began to blister and bubble, the feeder raged once more at its enemy, whipping about the smaller tentacles in an effort to remove the eyes of its tormentor.
Then something obscene rammed into the feeder, splitting it wide open and exposing its brain to the all-destroying cloud. Convulsing with unimaginable pain, the vivisected feeder insanely tightened every tentacle and attempted to bite the other thing. Its iron beak shattered at the contact. Then the howler flowed inside the writhing mutie and began to feed.
The wailing death scream of the feeder rang across the landscape and seemed to last in inordinate length of time.
Chapter Thirteen
With a strangled cry, sec chief Abigail Ralhoun sat bolt upright in the darkness, clawing for a blaster on her hip. However, her fingers found only blankets and a bedroll. Frantically looking around, she saw the gun belt and her longblaster lying neatly coiled on top of her horse saddle, safe from the morning dew.
Confused a she was by the surroundings, it took her a few moments to realize that she was among her troops, and no longer being horribly tortured. Camarillo, the name of coldheart will be Camarillo.
Grabbing the handblaster, she thumbed back the hammer, taking great comfort in the weight of the weapon in her fist. Fighting to control her pounding heart, Ralhoun listened to the familiar sounds of the night, the gentle snoring of the sleeping sec men mixing with the eternal song of the cicadas. Silently, a huge owl flew by overhead, the shape briefly blotting out the moonlight. Nearby, a campfire softly crackled, the dancing flames illuminating a ring of sleeping bags and bedrolls. Heavy blankets covered the still forms of the sec men, their saddles positioned close at hand, their sweaty boots perched on top to air out in the cool night.
With a longblaster resting on his lap, a guard sat on a fallen log slowly sipping a tin cup of coffee sub, while another man was facing the bushes, whistling to cover the gentle sound of splashing. Off to the side, the horses stood with heads bowed in sleep, only the occasional swishing motions of their tails showing that they were still alive.
Slowly, Ralhoun allowed herself to relax. Black dust, it had just been a bad dream, only a dream. However, the ghastly images remained crystal clear in her mind, and she slowly had to accept the fact that it hadn’t been a dream, but a vision of the future.
Her doomie father had been amazingly accurate in his predictions, but her powers were as unreliable as brass taken from a stranger. Numerous times she had seen doom and death looming fast, only to have something unexpectedly change the course of events. At a very early age she had learned that the visions weren’t carved in stone, but merely the most likely future. It seemed that time was in a constant state of flux, forever changing. The most minor decision this day could invoke major alterations for the next, some good, some bad, while others were completely pointless.
Once, she had a vision of the local potter getting aced by his cousin over a game of dice. Then the cousin fell ill with the yellow cough and died. However, the very next day the potter got eaten by a mutie while burying the man. He still died, just not in the way she had foreseen. Mebbe that meant some things could be changed, while others couldn’t? She had no idea, and deeply hated the uncertainty of the gift, but had learned to grudgingly accept that aspect of it. Life was pain. Only the dead felt nothing.
Pulling on a shirt, she strapped on a gun belt and padded barefoot over to a stream. Kneeling in the grass, she splashed some cold water on her face, then rinsed her mouth and spit into the reeds. An unfamiliar taste filled her mouth, sickeningly salty, and her mind was filled with the images of an underground chamber, her sec men chained to the stone-block walls. Most of them were missing their fingers. Although gutted like a spring buck, one of them was horribly twitching with life. It was John Cordova, her best tracker. Dimly, she remembered that he had discovered the hidden base of the coldhearts, and against her direct orders, had charged in, screaming and shooting, determined to avenge the death of his friend Hohner. His were the actions that led the rest of her sec men to this horrible fate.
In the middle of the dungeon was a tanning board covered with the tightly stretched skin of the outlander called Ryan Cawdor, his missing eye only one of many holes in the leathery hide. It was peppered with bulletholes, along with several knife cuts. Clearly, he had been aced very hard.
Hanging from a scaffold was the skinless body of a teenager, his white teeth fully exposed, the lidless eyes staring into eternity. The word tiger came unbidden into her mind, then faded away like a whisper in the wind.
Shivering, she remembered being stark naked on a cold stone table, spread-eagled and helpless, heavy metal chains clamped to her wrists and ankles. Laughing coldhearts surrounded the table, and some big man named Camarillo was thrusting between her legs. Pain filled her inside, but even worse was the sense of helplessness and utter humiliation. There was blood smeared on her breasts, on her stomach. Vomit rose in her throat at the memory.
Desperately needing some coffee sub, she shuffled back to the campfire and poured herself a mug from the softly bubbling pot. The black brew had been heated all night and tasted bitterly strong. The flavor was overpowering, and that was a blessed relief. Draining the mug, she had a second, and then a third.
“Something wrong, Chief?” a sec man asked in concern, putting aside his cup. “You have a vision or something?”
Looking at the man, she recognized him as one of the corpses on the wall. “Corporal Latimer, take over for a minute,” she commanded, getting to her feet. “Sergeant Cordova and I have some ville biz to discuss.”
“Not a prob, Chief,” Latimer said, ambling over to pour out the cold dregs from his tin cup, then get some fresh coffee. With a pleased smile, he sat down on the log and pulled out some jerky to start gnawing contently.
“I swear he eats his own bodyweight in chow every couple of hours,” Cordova muttered in disgust. “How is that possible? Think he’s a mutie, Chief?”
“No talking,” she directed sternly, trying to think of what to say to the him.
In an awkward silence, Ralhoun and Cordova walked out of the camp and into the night. She angled away from the creek, toward the south. Soon they were moving along on a rocky cliff overlooking a sylvan valley of pine trees and rocky tors. The full moon was so low in the sky it almost looked like it was about to crash into the valley, and the light was incredibly bright.
Stopping on a jagged escarpment, they stood looking down upon the cold forest, listening to the sounds of the night.
“Okay, we’re far enough away,” she stated, crossing her arms. “Now, listen sharp, this is important.”
“What’s up, Chief?” Cordova asked, swinging around his longblaster to work the arming bolt. “Somebody trying a nightcreep?”
“No, nothing like that,” she said tolerantly. “Look, I had a vision, and it was a bad one. A real nuke storm. We got our arses kicked in a fight and everybody was aced.”
“Shitfire,” he replied, giving the word several syllables. “So what’s the plan? We gonna hit them first, or swing wide and strike from the rear?”
She grunted at that, pleased that he never even mentioned the possibility of running away. “I want you to ride back to the ville—”
“And come back with fresh troops,” he interrupted, slinging the longblaster. “I won’t let you down, Chief. We’ll chill the bastards! Was it the outlanders or somebody new?”
“Stop firing from the hip and listen to me,” she growled, staring at the man in annoyance. “I want you to go back to the ville and stay there. No rescue attempts, no fresh troops. Just keep the gates closed and wait for me to come back. That’s it. Nothing else. Understand?”
“Hell, no.” He frowned. “I ain’t gonna leave you, Chief.
There’s no yellow in my belly. I’m with you till the end!”
Which was exactly what was going to happen to all of them unless she could somehow alter the future. Mebbe having him leave wouldn’t change the outcome of the fight, but it was all that she could think of doing, aside from shooting herself in the head to avoid the rape.
“This is a direct order,” she said, poking the man in the chest with a stiff finger. “You must leave right now, and don’t come back.”
“Not going to happen…Chief.”
“This is a direct order, Sergeant! Disobedience means a hundred lashes, and expulsion from the ville!”
“Aw, fuck your vision. Some of them have been wrong before,” he said stubbornly. “I won’t go, Chief, not ever. You can count on me to the grave!”
Suddenly, she saw his face in a new way, the passion and deep concern clearly evident, and knew the truth. “You love me, don’t ya?” she asked softly, hoping for a denial.
“Since the day we met.” He exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath forever. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re the baron, and the sec chief, but hellfire, Abigail, everybody needs somebody.”
“Shit,” she muttered, flexing her fingers.
“I’ll never leave your side, Chief,” he stated adamantly. “You can count on me!”
“So be it, then.” She sighed. “Sorry about this, old friend. But I’m never going onto the stone table.”
Puzzled, he squinted. “What stone table?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, pulling a Beretta and firing.
The soft lead 9 mm slugs slammed hard into the sec man, blowing away chunks of flesh and driving him backward off the cliff. As silent as a snowflake, he plummeted into the darkness, to vanish from sight. She remained quiet until hearing a meaty impact far below.
Holstering the smoking blaster, she turned away and started back to the camp, meeting a dozen sec men in various stages of undress, their hands full of weapons.
“What happened, Chief?” one asked, his blaster sweeping the night for targets.
“Cordova and I were talking some ville biz when a mutie condor grabbed him,” she lied, turning to pretend to stare hatefully into the night. “We both fired, but it took him over the cliff.”
“Well, nuke me running,” a sec woman whispered, stepping to the edge and peering below. “Any chance he’s still alive down there?”
“Not after having his throat removed,” she said, trying to sound grim.
“Did ya get the mutie, at least?” another sec man asked.
His chest was completely covered with tattoos, and for some reason that reminded her of the tanning rack in her vision. Already it was becoming hard to recall the details, the currents of time swirling away in new directions.
“Yes, I aced the danger. We’re safe now,” she said, starting back to the camp. “Davidson, you’re captain of the guard for the rest of the night. Double the sentries and chill anything that comes in sight.”
“Got’ya, Chief,” he grunted, thumbing back both hammers on his double-barrel scattergun. “Take no chances. I got your six!”
“Me, too,” she replied cryptically. It was been a hard price to pay, but she had done what was required to save the rest of her troops, and herself.
As well as those accursed outlanders, she added privately, taking off the gun belt and coiling it neatly on top of her saddle. I only hope this new future was worth such a sacrifice.
Getting under the blanket, she wiggled into a comfortable position. At the very least, she now knew the name of her real enemy, Camarillo. And that he couldn’t be trusted under any circumstances.
Then again, neither can I, she thought, drifting off to a peaceful and dreamless sleep.
JUST BEFORE DAWN, Alan got the convoy under way through the twisting maze of hollows. Ryan, Mildred and Krysty took the job of outriders, keeping their horses ahead of the rattling convoy. J.B., Jak and Doc brought up the rear. Always on the move, Cordelia rode with both groups, switching back and forth every couple miles. Meanwhile, Alan stayed in the lead wag, constantly watching the crest of the slopes with a pair of binoculars, a loaded musket lying across his lap and a softly ticking rad counter on the floor near his boots.
There had been no sign of the coldhearts since the attack in the hallows, and some of the travelers had started to relax and chat among themselves, but Alan made that nonsense stop fast.
“Just because you can’t hear quicksand don’t mean it won’t chill you,” he declared gruffly. “Until we’re out of these damn valleys, keep your yaps shut and iron in your fist!”
The previous evening had been awkward for the companions, with the travelers watching them for any sign of betrayal. Their help in the fight notwithstanding, outlanders always meant trouble. Then Ryan and J.B. had offered to help Alan and Cordelia make some bombs with the oddball rounds they had recovered from the aced coldhearts. Mildred joined forces with Benjamin Dewitt, and the two healers checked on every wounded member of the convoy, stitching bulletholes, setting bones and changing bandages. Krysty and Jak helped make repairs on the wags, never going inside, of course, while Doc entertained the children with tall tales of Atlantis, King Arthur, Robin Hood and Zorro, although he used the more conventional terms of baron, sec men and mutie.
Slowly, the tense atmosphere warmed, and dinner had been a pleasant affair of horse meat. There had been a few wild turnips and some acorns tossed into the stew, but mostly it was just horse, some of the chunks roasted, while others got fried, to try to change the flavor a little. Without refrigeration, or a significant amount of salt as a preservative, the raw meat would soon go bad, so it had to be eaten fast. A tiny blonde woman called Library wanted to halt long enough to jerk the meat, but Alan flatly refused. A sitting convoy already had one boot in the grave. Distance was their best armor against the coldhearts. That, plus ground too soft for the bedamned steam truck to traverse. Nobody had seen the colossal war wag in action, but from the description, it was clearly something best to avoid entirely.
Riding at the back of the convoy, Doc and J.B. did their best to keep straight faces while Cordelia flirted outrageously with Jak. Intent on watching for the coldhearts, Jak didn’t seem to notice. But Doc and J.B. knew that he’d tweaked to her intentions quite a while ago, and now was just teasing her by playing dumb.
“So, how many knives you carry?” Cordelia asked, rocking gently in the saddle to the motion of her horse. As the morning became warm, she had unbuttoned her shirt to reveal an amazing amount of cleavage.
“Enough,” Jak said, pretending to misunderstand the question. “How many blasters you got?”
“Never enough,” she answered. “Think I should start carrying some blades?”
“Some steel in right place do you good,” he replied, riding closer until they were side by side. Ebony and ivory.
“I hear N’Orleans steel is the best,” Cordelia said suggestively.
“Is!” Jak grinned, then he smiled and added, “We camp, I show.”
Realizing that she was being joshed, Cordelia frowned, then grinned, and bumped her mare into his stallion. Then, leaning sideways, she grabbed Jak by the shirt and pulled him in close for a hard kiss. It was fast, but fierce.
“Now, that’s just a horse-diver, as they say,” she murmured. “A sample of the main meal tonight.”
“Damn good cook!” Jak chuckled, reaching out to pat her thigh. He could feel her warmth under the faded denim and gave a gentle squeeze. She patted his hand in return, then whispered something in his ear that made him blush fiercely.
“Never do before,” he murmured. “Is fun?”
“Hell, yes.”
“That another horse-diver?” he asked, shifting his palm a little higher.
“You better believe it,” she replied, removing his hand. “But keep that blaster holstered! I don’t want it going off early and spoiling our fun tonight because you’re outta brass.”
“Never been that tired,” Jak boasted, g
iving her a wink.
“Do Millie and I ever get like this?” J.B. asked out of the corner of his mouth, his hands resting on the pommel of the saddle.
“Never, my friend, and we all deeply appreciate that,” Doc answered, then softly added, “And the word is hors d’oeuvre, not horse-divers.”
“Don’t think they care.” J.B. chuckled softly.
Scratching his horse behind the ear, Doc sighed. “As it should be, John Barrymore. And in truth, they do make a good pair, eh?”
“Seems so.”
Just then, a stingwing rose from some muddy weeds. Instantly, both Jak and Cordelia drew and fired their blasters. Gushing blood, bits of the mutie tumbled back into the water.
“Damn near a perfect match,” J.B. stated, releasing the safety on the Uzi rapidfire.
“Indeed,” Doc agreed. The LeMat was only halfway out of its holster, and he tucked the weapon back into position.
Entering a forest, the convoy traveled for a few miles under a leafy canopy of interlocking branches. Even though it was approaching noon, there was only a dappled scattering of sunlight, the shadows as thick as flies on a corpse.
With a hand resting on his longblaster, Ryan reacted violently, and almost fired when something plummeted from the branches above to land on the dirt with a wet splat. Backtracking the trajectory, he easily found an opossum scurrying through the boughs. He grunted, and lowered the Galil. It wasn’t an attack, just piss from an animal. He debated chilling it, but the convoy already had more horse meat than they could eat in a month. There was no sense wasting brass.
Then it happened again from another opossum, the juicy deluge almost hitting Mildred.
“Gardyloo!” she called out with a chuckle, removing her finger from the trigger of the Winchester.
