by James Axler
Snatching up the rapidfire, the man sprinted away, chilling two more coldhearts before the magazine ran dry. Then he was aced by a coldheart with a booming handblaster.
“The gate is down!” another man screamed, waving a machete as if attacking the rain. “Follow me to freedom!”
“Forget that!” Lee-Ann countered. “Head for the roundhouse! We need blasters!”
Suddenly, a figure appeared on the roof of a cabin. “Red alert! It’s the slaves!” a coldheart bellowed, firing a scattergun.
Caught in the chest, Lee-Ann seemed to exploded from within, bloody gobbets of steaming flesh smacking into the cabin wall. But as she fell, the ville bartender snatched up the machete and expertly flipped it forward. The long blade slammed into the belly of the coldheart, the sharp end coming out of his back. Groaning into death, he fell off the roof and hit the paved street with a hard crunch.
Moving fast, the slaves poured over the corpse like ants, snatching away the scattergun, his belt knife and the machete. Laughing insanely, a gaudy slut chopped the aced man into pieces before continuing onward, leaving bloody footprints in her wake.
Just then, an arrow arched down from the clouds to impale a running coldheart through the leg. Even as he stumbled, the half stick of dynamite exploded, sending out a hissing corona of shrapnel. Torn into pieces, a dozen other coldhearts fell, their tattered clothing soaked with blood.
Hearing the sound of running boots, Althea ducked behind an outhouse just as a squad of coldhearts appeared, their hands full of death. But as they took aim at the mob of howling slaves, the muffled report of a powerful longblaster sounded, and on the corner a water barrel burst apart, releasing its contents of acid rain. As the yellow fluid sloshed over their boots, the leather partly dissolved, and they frantically tried to hop out of the way. But the distant longblaster spoke again, and a second barrel exploded. Even though the acid rain was slightly diluted, the living flesh fell off their bones, and the coldhearts went sprawling, only to rise once more with most of their faces burned.
Scrambling onto the roof of the rickety outhouse, Althea could only wait until the downpour of rainwater washed the streets clean. Then she climbed down and streaked pell-mell toward the gallows.
Throughout the camp, she could hear the growing chaos of explosions, blasters, screaming, and the high-pitched shrieking of coldhearts encountering more acid rain barrels. Boomerangs spun out of the darkness, as silent as death itself, only to arch back again even faster than before.
More arrows descended, exploding like predark bombs across the camp. Several bounced off the copper roof of the roundhouse, to ignite harmlessly in the air, the shrapnel only sloshing the water in a couple of wooden barrels and chilling a cougar.
Althea heard the joyful cries of her fellow ville folk, and she almost smiled. Somebody was invading the camp, just as they were trying to get out. With all her heart, she wished both groups the best of luck. Lead hummed by her constantly, to musically ricochet off the brick streets, or wetly slap into the side of a cabin.
Running past the lashing post, she was grateful to see that the rain had washed away the lingering residue of its former occupant, her cousin, Bill.
A low puttering noise lead her straight to Dean, sitting astride a sandhog. The noose from the gallows was already lashed firmly to the frame of the odd little three-wheeler. His BAR longblaster was gone, and he was bleeding from several minor injuries, but he greeted her with a wide smile.
“Relieved that you made it!” he said, holstering the Browning Hi-Power. “Where is your…” He stopped talking at the sight of her grim expression.
“Get on,” he commanded. “We’ll need the extra weight to make this work!”
Wordlessly, she climbed on the seat, then hugged him tightly. Dean felt her shake and heard a muffled sob, but wisely said nothing. Mildred had taught him that tears were a natural release and helped a person stay sane.
“Here we go!” he growled, revving the engine and releasing the hand brake.
In a surge of power, the sandhog darted forward, and the rope snapped tight, creaking tightly, as the wooden gallows groaned. Then the base snapped and it came hurtling down, smashing onto the top of the railroad carriage wall.
“It worked!” Althea whispered.
“Not yet,” Dean countered, climbing off the machine to cut away the noose and lash it tightly around the hand controls.
Aiming the sandhog back toward the heart of the camp, Dean saw that several of the cabins were in flames, and the flashes of red light in the streets told of blasters being used. Then the firebomb in his cabin detonated, and the roof was blown off, a column of flame reaching high into the stormy sky.
“Never saw black powder so strong before,” Althea said in surprise.
“That was something else—a plas-ex called C-4,” Dean replied, releasing the brake. Instantly, the sandhog streaked away to disappear into the night.
“But that’s mil stuff!” she gasped. “Where did you find that much?”
“Didn’t, I made it. An old friend named J.B. taught me how when I was a little,” he replied, taking her hand and running back to the gallows.
“Why didn’t we use that on the wall?”
“This batch was too unstable to risk moving. I had to cook it in the dark, you know!”
“Fair enough!” She smiled. “Is there anything you can’t do, my love?”
“Don’t know how to fly yet!” he replied, grabbing hold of the notches carved into the stout wooden beam used by the coldhearts, and starting up the gallows.
The wood was slippery with the rain, but the angle helped, and soon he reached the top of the wall. Staying low, he swung around the Browning Hi-Power and swept the darkness for any dangers. He couldn’t really see much because of the downpour, then lightning flashed and he spotted a coldheart fifty yards away. Taking aim, he fired once, and the man fell backward into eternity.
“All clear!” he announced, working the bolt to chamber around round.
A moment later, Althea was by his side, her knife and blaster at the ready.
Going to the first coil of barbed wire, Dean pulled out a knife to start cutting, and was startled to find the wire already pushed aside. A grappling hook was set into the roof, and a knotted length of rope trailed over the side. This had to be how the invaders got in. What a stroke of luck!
Just then, Althea fired the Ruger.
Spinning low and fast, Dean saw a coldheart fall off the wall, his throat squirting out a geyser of blood.
Grunting at the sight, he sheathed the knife and drew the Browning Hi-Power. “You first,” he commanded.
Nodding, Althea took hold of the rope and climbed out of sight.
“All clear, Adam!” she whispered from the darkness, using the code.
Holstering the blaster, Dean did the same, landing on the soggy ground in a splash.
“Where now?” Althea asked quietly.
Holding up a finger for silence, Dean tried to recall every trick Jak had ever taught him about following footprints through muddy water. The trail seemed to meander aimlessly into the bushes, and he began to think he was lost when he heard the low snort of a horse.
Sure enough, just past a bend in the canyon wall was a line of horses tethered to some juniper trees. He checked, but there were no guards, which was understandable. The invaders would need every blaster they had to take on the Stone Angels.
Choosing the best two horses, Dean and Althea quickly checked the saddlebags for supplies, and found dried meat, grens and brass. Climbing onto their new mounts, they then cut the reins of the rest of the horses and got them all moving as they rode out of the box canyon and along the muddy banks of the swollen river.
Traveling past the front gate of the camp, they saw the wreckage of the railroad, and the fighting inside. Murky figures on sandhogs were zooming about, while the cougars roared and the slaves screamed obscenities, hacking to pieces anything they could reach. Blasters were firing constantly,
grens boomed, ’rangs and flights of arrows filled the air, then the piercing steam whistle of the Atomsmasher sounded.
“Time to run,” Dean said through clenched teeth, kicking his stallion into a fast trot.
With Althea close behind, he broke away from the scattering horses, and together they charged along the bank of the river. There was little moonlight at the bottom of the canyon, and given the rain, visibility was almost nonexistent. Speed could ace them, but the couple didn’t dare delay. Staying close to the murmuring river, they rode blindly onward until the noise of battle faded.
Gradually, the irregular canyon walls fell away and they were riding across open countryside brightly illuminated by the moon. In heartfelt relief, they both broke into a gallop, their horses pounding across the scrub grass.
“Where now, lover?” Althea called, bent low in the saddle, her long hair fanned out in the wind.
“We’re gonna try and find some old friends,” he replied grimly, moving to the motion of the stallion.
She glanced sideways. “How?”
“Working on it!” he replied, using his knees to urge the horse to a greater speed.
Chapter Seventeen
Punching, kicking, biting and cursing, Latimer and Hannigan fought like animals in the gentle rain.
Ducking under a fist, Latimer kicked the coldheart in the stomach. Hannigan grunted from the brutal impact, and butted the sec man in the face, breaking his nose. Snarling obscenities, Latimer reached for his blaster and found Hannigan’s hand already there. Both men grabbed the weapon and struggled for control, the Colt .45 firing several times into the air before the hammer merely clicked on spent brass.
Releasing the blaster, Latimer drew his knife and slashed Hannigan across the throat, but the coldheart jerked back just enough so that the razor-sharp steel only left a shallow cut that oozed droplets of blood instead of a gushing torrent of hot life.
Kneeing the sec man in the groin in retribution, Hannigan felt his knee crack as it hit something as hard as rock. Clever son of a bitch had a wooden bowl in his crotch as protection! he realized.
Wrapping both hands around the throat of his enemy, Hannigan now tried to squeeze the life out of the invader, his thumbs going deep into the muscles. Unable to dislodge the insane coldheart, Latimer frantically looked about for help, but the entire camp was filled with sec men, slaves and coldhearts locked in bitter combat, illuminated by the flickering glow of the burning cabins.
“Hear that whistle, outlander?” Hannigan growled, spittle flying from his mouth. “That’s the last train coming for you!”
Saving his breath, Latimer said nothing in reply. He tried to raise his knife again, but the berserker rage of the coldheart had given the man fantastic strength. The sec man knew it wouldn’t last for long, but by the time it faded away, he would be meat in the street.
Lurching sideways, Latimer forced them both to the ground and they rolled along the bricks, but Hannigan never relinquished his hold. The sec man’s world was starting to grow dim, his laboring lungs feeling as if they were on fire.
Flailing about for a loose brick to use, Latimer accidentally touched a small puddle of diluted acid rain, his hand convulsing from the pain. Instantly, he reached up to wipe his palm on the coldheart’s face, deliberately going for his adversary’s left eye.
Shrieking in pain, Hannigan released the sec man to race over to a covered rainwater barrel. He jerked off the lid and plunged his head into the cool, clear water, then jerked it right back out again, and jumped backward. A split second later, a knife thudded into the wooden barrel exactly where he had just been standing.
Crouching like feral beasts, the two men circled each other, panting for breath, their hands splayed, their faces full of raw hatred.
Unexpectedly, a pair of men riding horses raced down the street.
“Stop that right now!” Camarillo shouted, triggering a short burst from his AK-47, the 7.62 mm rounds throwing off red chips as they hammered across the street between the two combatants.
“Fuck that. I’m never going into a collar!” Latimer sneered, diving to the side to recover his knife and thrust it toward Hannigan’s throat.
But a shot rang out from the second rider, and the blade was violently torn from his grip, to spin away into the misty night.
Looking up in surprise, Latimer saw Chief Ralhoun riding closer, a smoking blaster in her grip.
“Chief?” he asked in confusion, cradling his wounded hand.
“We were tricked, Latimer!” Ralhoun growled, holstering the Beretta. “Ryan Cawdor was never part of the Stone Angels!”
“Ryan…Cawdor?” Hannigan asked in a low growl, stressing the last name. “You mean Dean, right?”
“You heard correct the first time,” Camarillo growled. “And from the way Chief Ralhoun describes the mutie-lover, I’d guess this Ryan was the older brother, or mebbe even the father of Tiger Cawdor. A father and son team out to set us onto each other, so that those fragging travelers can scav. Tried your ville and failed. Set their eyes on our camp!”
“This was about jacking supplies?” Latimer muttered, flexing his stinging fingers. The accuracy of the chief had been amazing. His hand was undamaged, but hurting worse than the one that found the acid rain pool.
“Got another reason?” Ralhoun inquired, sliding off her horse.
“You mean that Tiger Cawdor was a spy?” Hannigan asked. “But he was with us for quite a while!”
“So what? I’ll bet this Ryan fellow has a whole army of bastard sons living in villes across the Deathlands, and when Daddy arrives, they ace the baron, open the front gate and turn the place over to him!”
“Shitfire, that be a good plan,” Latimer muttered, glaring at Hannigan. The entire left side of the coldheart’s face was blazing red, and his eye was horribly bloodshot, but he still seemed able to see.
Taking a step forward, Latimer thrust out his wounded hand. “What do ya say, coldheart? Allies until we ace these rad suckers?”
After curling a lip as if about to spit, Hannigan took his hand and shook. “You dig the grave and I’ll toss them in,” he declared. “Deal?”
“Done and done,” Latimer said, releasing his grip and fighting the urge to wipe his hand clean.
“Glad you both agree.” Ralhoun snorted. “Now go find some horses and grab anything that throws lead! We’re leaving immediately to hunt down Tiger and force him to take us to where Ryan and his people are hiding.”
“They’re probably both with the convoy,” Latimer said, going over to retrieve his own dropped blaster.
“Only if he’s a feeb,” Camarillo snorted. “Travelers can’t fight worth a damn.”
“Hunt down,” Hannigan said slowly, repeating the phrase. “Then Tiger isn’t in the camp?”
Ralhoun scowled. “Nope. Must have left during the fight.”
“Bastard coward.” Hannigan sneered, a hand going to his empty holster. “Anybody loan me some iron? I damaged mine beating a slave to death.”
“Here you go…Lieutenant,” Camarillo said, pulling a massive revolver from his belt and tossing it over.
Grinning coldly, Lieutenant Hannigan checked the handblaster before tucking it away. “Thanks. I promise to put it to good use.”
THE SUN WAS JUST RISING over the distant mountains when the doors to the loading dock were forced aside and the companions emerged, leading their horses, followed by what remained of the convoy. The previous day there’d been a dozen Conestogas, each with a team of six. The convoy of travelers had been reduced to a mere ten wags, with a team of four horses, several of which were covered with bandages. However, they were still mobile.
“Della, what’s the count?” Alan asked, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. Hanging alongside the stirrup, his broken ankle was tightly wrapped in a thick cocoon of wooden sticks, furry pelts and leather belts.
“That still hurt?” Cordelia asked in concern.
“Damn, woman, of course it does,” he growled, res
isting the urge to scratch under the wrappings. “Now what’s the nuking count!”
“Fifteen horses aced and nine people,” Cordelia reported gruffly. “And we have two folks missing, presumed eaten.” One of her four flintlock handblasters was gone, replaced with a 9 mm Mauser recovered from the coldhearts. It was a weird blaster, with the magazine in front of the grip, not inside where it should be located. But the weapon worked well enough, now that it had been thoroughly cleaned of the former owner’s brains.
“Bastard muties,” Alan growled, his voice thick with hate. His precious Japanese war sword was gone, buried in the back of a stickie that had somehow lived long enough to run away. Now, aside from the pair of flintlock handblasters tucked into his gun belt, he had a bolt-action longblaster recovered from one of the aced coldhearts slung across his back. The weapon, called a Springfield, was supposed to be from the First War, what some of the wrinklies called World War I. He had never heard of the weapon before, and the action was a little stiff. However, the heavy 30.06 longblaster was made of honest steel and wood, not with a plastic stock like an M-16, and it felt more than capable of beating a mutie onto the last train west.
Past the parking lot, the ruins stood in stark relief, every trace of softening greenery gone. The few homes that still had shingles were relatively undamaged. The rest were merely shells, brick walls surrounding a soggy mess of partially dissolved drywall, furniture and drapes. The sodden material was sprinkled with brightly colored plastic tufts from wall-to-wall carpeting, the canvas backing gone, but the carpet fibers themselves never more colorful.
“Rainbow in a dung heap.” J.B. snorted, warily eyeing the fiberglass car chassis parked along the street. A neon-blue sports sedan seemed to be filled with bees, and the intact windows of a Toyota Starlet were so dirty it was impossible to tell what was inside without first opening the doors. No verbal commands were needed for everybody to ride on the extreme far side of the road, and keep a safe distance from any possible inhabitant of the little Japanese coupe.
