Bloodfire

by James Axler

  “Tell me about yourself,” Gaza ordered, reclining in the seat. “And start with the weapons.”

  OUTSIDE, THE DEADLY RAIN was starting to extinguish the rampaging fires. The exposed corpses on the sidewalks quickly began to dissolve under the deluge.

  Louder than cannons, the thunder rumbled once more, lightning flashing down to strike a radio tower and starting a fresh fire that the rain soon drenched.

  Across the metropolis, the muties sought cover from the storm, only to find countless small fires raging deep within the buildings where the rain could never reach. Bloody violence filled the city as the mindless creatures fought one another in bestial fury over the bodies, adding more corpses to the city of death. But that was only a harbinger of the slaughter to come.

  IN WAR WAG ONE, windshield wipers worked steadily to keep the front glass clear of the rain. Humming and shaking, the patched air conditioner was working full power and the atmosphere inside the war wag was almost clear of the rotten-egg stink of the deadly downpour.

  The burning wreckage of an APC sat blown apart before the rig, and all around the blast site bodies of the outriders eroded under the onslaught of the acid rain.

  “Hit it again!” Kate ordered, brandishing a fist. “No prisoners!”

  A few moments later, the rig shuddered as another missile was launched from the roof pod, and this time the APC was hit dead center. The crew in the control room cheered, as the radio crackled with static. Nobody paid attention to it, as the comm did that with every flash of lightning, but this time somebody started speaking.

  “Anybody hear us on this?” a gruff man’s voice demanded. “We got this hand comm from a bike that rain hadn’t swamped yet.”

  Kate spun at that and stared hard at the speaker. What the hell was going on here? That sure wasn’t Duncan over in War Wag Two.

  “You listening in the big rig?” the stranger continued. “The name is Ryan Cawdor, and I used to run with Trader back in the Darks. I’m here with J. B. Dix and some others.”

  “Weapons on full, shoot anything coming our way,” Kate ordered, taking out her hand comm and extending the slim antenna until the telescoping silver almost reached the ceiling.

  “Ryan, eh? The name is familiar to me,” the woman said, pressing the transmit switch. “So where the hellblast are you?”

  “Out here in the rain,” the man said simply. “Look on your four.”

  “Bullshit,” Blackjack growled in disbelief, checking the radar screen. “Ain’t nothing out there but deaders and wreckage. It’s some kinda trick.”

  “Incorrect,” Eric said from above. “The ear is picking up their voices through the rain. They are exactly where they claim to be.”

  While the gunners in the machine-gun blisters swept their blasters across the soaked desert, Kate worried a knuckle.

  “Mebbe,” she relented, then went to the periscope to track the area. But sure enough, there they were, a half-dozen or so people wrapped in plastic like MRE meals, and standing on a sandy mound, the yellow runoff creeping steadily up the side of their dwindling island.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Jessica growled, leaning into the windshield to try to get a look. “Some of his sec men left the wag?”

  “Men or women?” Jake asked, flipping a switch to turn on the halogen headlights. The beams stabbed into the rain but were swallowed whole after only a few yards. “He’s got all those damn wives, ya know. I heard it was a hundred.”

  “Only a few. But this looks like a mix,” Kate said slowly. “Might be a kid and wrinklie, too. But I can’t tell for sure.”

  Taking a rag from his pants, Blackjack wiped the inside of the blister to remove the thickening fog of condensation that the damn AC always caused. “Think it’s a mutiny?” he asked, squinting outside.

  “No,” the Trader said, leaving the periscope. “No way that one APC could hold a dozen people even if they were stuffed in like cordwood.”

  “Might have been riding on top,” Jessica suggested. “Then the rain came and they ran just before we used the missiles.”

  In spite of her gut feeling on the matter, Kate had to admit that did cover everything and made a damn lot of sense. The logical thing would be for them to start the engines and leave, letting the rain ace the strangers in its own way. Only that civie had spoken well of Ryan, and she had been hearing rumors of such a man who traveled the Deathlands chilling slavers, and such. That alone earned him a lot of ammo in her book. Mebbe even enough for a face-to-face.

  “Hello?” the radio cracked once more. “You still there?”

  “I hear ya,” Kate asked bluntly into the comm, walking over to the front window. There wasn’t much to be seen through the downpour. “So what do you want from me?”

  “How about letting us in? We’re getting chilled out here.”

  Jake and Blackjack both snorted rudely at that. At the door, the guard worked the bolt on his M-16 and tested the locks to make sure the hatch was firmly secured. Kate approved. Her people knew their jobs; hopefully so did she.

  “You might get chilled in here,” the woman replied, a touch of anger distorting her words. “It’s just a question of my blasters, or the nuking rain. I got no reason to ace you, but then, I also got no reason to trust you. But tell you what. We’ll shoot you if you like, and save getting melted from the chems.”

  There came a bitter laugh. “Okay, here’s a new deal. We know where Gaza is. Fair trade. A ride for the info.”

  “Mutie crap. The baron is chilled,” Jake said, but there was a trace of doubt in his face. “Gotta be. Look at that fucking wag!”

  “If he was inside,” Kate said, then raised the hand comm to her mouth and pressed the transmit switch. “Deal sounds okay, but too many riding along. I only need one of you to talk.”

  “Nobody talks unless we all go,” he stated firmly, the rain audible in the background. Somebody was coughing hard from the stink of the polluted water. “The deal is everybody rides, or nobody.”

  “You a family?”

  “Close enough,” Ryan stated.

  Part of her ability to trade with barons and civies was the talent to tell a fucking lie from a masked truth. Kate could hear in his voice that he considered this the truth. That didn’t mean it was—he could be insane—but she wasn’t getting that read off the man, and made her decision.

  “Okay, drop your blasters and come in, one at a time,” Kate said. “Anybody gets fancy and my troops will cut you down.”

  “The dog has no teeth,” he countered. “We keep the blasters and come in together.”

  “Then you don’t come in!”

  “Then you don’t get Gaza!”

  There was a long pause as the rain water slowly rose, the salty mix a murky white like pus flowing from an infected wound.

  “Okay, final chance,” Kate growled into the hand comm. “You come in with the iron, but take it off once inside. But keep your knives. That’s as good as it gets. Take it or leave it.”

  “And how do I know we can trust you?”

  About time he asked that. “Fair enough,” she said, and released the transmit switch. “Jake, give them the lights.”

  The driver adjusted the controls and on the outside hull of the war wag brilliant electric lights came on illuminating the sides of the huge rig. Covered by several layers of clear acrylic paint salvaged from an auto body shop, was the carefully painted symbol of a lightning bolt slashing across a star.

  “If you know anything, that says everything,” she stated. “The word of the Trader is jack in every ville for a thousand miles along the New Mex and Panhandle.”

  “Yes, it is,” Ryan said. “Deal. We’re coming in.”

  “Use the back door,” Kate added, and turned the radio off.

  “Think we can trust them, Chief?” Blackjack asked, turning from the machine-gun blister.

  “I don’t trust anybody,” she said, tucking the hand comm away and pulling out the Ingram to check the ammo clip. “Have armed
guards meet them in the washroom, and if they cause us any trouble, blow them to hell.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sloshing through the foul water, the companions walked to the aft end of the imposing war wag. A door was already open there, bright lights showing from inside. The last to trundle into a small steel-lined room, Ryan closed the door and the companions drew in their first deep breath since the deluge had started.

  “Now what?” Dean asked, the foggy plastic sheets dripping yellow water onto the stainless-steel floor.

  “Use the hose,” a voice said gruffly through a grille in the only other door. The stubby barrel of a rapid-fire showed through the opening, pointing their way. “Then hang the ponchos on the wall and dump your blasters in the iron box in the corner.”

  Dutifully, the companions rinsed themselves, the faint yellow water swirling into a drain in the middle of the floor. The original Trader had used something similar for folks set on fire from Molotov cocktails and the like.

  When they were clean, the air smelled even better and it was much easier to breathe. Shaking out the plastic shower curtains, they hung them on the steel hooks welded to the wall and let them drip directly onto the floor.

  “Now the iron,” the voice behind the blaster insisted, and there came the telltale sound of a slide being racked to drive home the necessity of obedience.

  Reluctantly, the companions shed their weapons, placing the arsenal of blasters into an old U.S. Army footlocker, the munitions bag barely fitting within the tight confines. The lack of weight around his waist disturbed Ryan, and he really hated to give up the weapons, but there was no other way. The companions had been caught without blasters many times before, and it always cost a world of pain to get them back. At least they still had some blades.

  “Ammo, too,” the guard ordered, and they complied. What good was one without the other?

  Now the door swung open, and three men entered, short rapid-fires held in their hands, the blasters perfect for combat inside the cramped confines of a wag. One of the men held himself oddly stiff, his broad shoulders tense from some hidden ailment.

  “That everything?” the guard demanded, looking them over carefully. “What’s in the bag?”

  Mildred opened the canvas satchel to display the collection of bottles and surgical instruments.

  “You a healer?” he asked suspiciously.

  She nodded, then added, “I bet that old busted leg hurts like a bitch in this kind of weather.”

  The stiff guard reacted in surprise to that, then let his face ease into a grim smile.

  “Okay, you’re a fucking healer.” He chuckled, then motioned with the rapid-fire toward the open doorway. However, his index finger was no longer resting on the trigger. “This way. The chief wants to see you in the galley.”

  The sound of the rain grew less noticeable as they walked along a narrow corridor, a perfect killing zone for defenders in the vehicle to ace invaders trying to reach the rear quarters. Soon the rumble of powerful engines could be heard, as well as the high-pitched whine of an electric generator. But another set of doors closed off that section, and the engine room was left behind. Crew quarters came next, the bunks disheveled and personal items about, a lot of preDark girlie posters on the walls, some of them pure hard-core. Mildred tried not to blush, while Jak and Dean noticed the explicit pictures with frank approval.

  A swinging set of louvered doors was chained open and the next room was warm, the air fragrant with the smell of a meat stew and black coffee. A long table was bolted to the floor, a bench on each side attached to the sturdy legs. Just like a submarine galley, Ryan noted privately, thinking of a stint with Admiral Poseidon. Everything firmly in place so that it wouldn’t slide about in combat and get in the way of repairs, or an escape.

  “Eat up,” a slim woman announced, turning from a small electric stove built into the dividing wall, the burners glowing red as molten lava. “I made plenty, so there’s plenty for everybody.”

  Expertly, she placed scarred red plastic bowls and utensils on the tables and then thumped a heavy metal pot full of bubbling stew in the middle of the table. There were chunks of meat mixed with veggies, and the smell was a pain in the belly of the hungry companions. Their last meal had been breakfast in the museum about twelve hours earlier.

  “Coffee next!” the cook announced, turning back to the stove. A parkerized revolver rode in a holster at the small of her back where it would be safe from bumping into a hot stove.

  As the companions took seats at the table, the skinny guard with a mustache frowned in disapproval.

  “Hey, Matilda, the chief didn’t say they got a meal,” he stated.

  “No, she didn’t,” a new man said as he entered the galley, a large revolver riding snug in a shoulder holster under his left arm. “But I do. So shut up, Anders, and stay out of the way.”

  The gray-haired man was huge, not fat, just large, with a barrel chest and wide arms. The tendons on his hands were as pronounced as coiled cables under a tarpaulin, and his irregular nose had clearly been broken in countless fights.

  Flashing in anger, Anders bridled at that, but then backed down from the big man and left the galley in a huff muttering to himself.

  “Damn fool.” Matilda sighed, placing a huge speckled urn of coffee on the table along with a tray of tin cups and a handful of mixed packets of powdered cream and sugar from MRE meal packs.

  “Hell of a tech on the engines, though,” the giant stated, leaning against the wall and crossing his thick arms. “Okay, Ryan, you and your people grab some chow. The chief will be with ya in a tick.”

  Feeding us so the sec men have enough time to search through our possessions, he realized, pouring a cup full of the black brew. Seven holsters but only six blasters would give vital info to anybody with a brain. It was a bastard smart move, and he would have done the same thing himself in their position.

  Pouring a cup of the fresh coffee, Mildred studied the fluid as it went into the cup, then sniffed carefully and took a small sip, holding the brew in her mouth for a moment before swallowing and nodding to the others. If there were any drugs in the potent java, they were beyond her ability to discern.

  The companions divided the food into the bowls and dug in with gusto. While they ate, the big man accepted a steaming cup of java from the cook and took a gulp in spite of the boiling temperature.

  “Blessed be, when you joined the convoy, Matilda,” he said with a grin. “Our last cook could ruin food by opening the can, and his coffee was perfect for dipping pungi sticks into to poison muties.”

  The woman merely smiled and returned to her work. With so many sec men in the convoy, her work was never really finished. Matilda was either starting a meal, serving it or washing dishes afterward. But this was still a hundred times better for her and Avarm than working in a ville. Almost a whole day had gone by so far and nobody had tried to rape her or steal Avarm to put him in slave chains. It was just incredible.

  “Got a name?” Ryan asked in a friendly manner, spooning more stew into his mouth.

  “I’m Fat Pete,” the man said, a hand resting on his thigh only inches away from the .357 Magnum S&W blaster riding at his side. “I’m the top kick here. Now.” The word was added to the sentence after a split second had passed, Ryan could make a guess what it meant. The XO for the convoy had been aced by Gaza, probably one of the bike riders dissolving outside in the mud.

  “Nothing to do with us,” Ryan said firmly. “We’re just trying to find the Trader, ace Gaza if we can.”

  “I like that second part,” Kate said, stepping into view from the corridor.

  Laying aside his spoon, Ryan watched as the tall woman entered the galley. So this was the person using the name of Trader. The woman was clean and well muscled, with fancy boots and two wide gun beltsing her ample hips; one sporting a big-bore revolver, the other carrying a hand comm. Her shirt swelled from a wealth of breast underneath, and her golden blond hair was tied off in a short po
nytail with a strip of camou cloth. Her nose had been broken once and set poorly, and a band of scars circled each wrist. A former slave, eh?

  Her skin was deeply bronzed from the Deathlands sun, and her eyes were hard, but not cold. There was still a trace of compassion in the expression.

  “You the Trader?” Ryan asked, laying aside his spoon.

  “Just Trader,” Kate said, sliding back her Stetson hat until it hung down her back from the thong around her neck. “And inside these walls you can call me Kate.”

  “Ryan,” he replied, indicating himself with a thumb, and then introducing the rest of the companions.

  Leaning against the wall, Kate nodded at each in turn. They were lean and hard looking, but without that dead glint in their eyes of mercies or coldhearts. The redhead in the group was a real beauty, but she carried herself with a warrior’s pride and nobody was telling her to get them things. All equal, eh? She liked that. Mebbe it had been a good idea to cut these folks a deal. Never enough friendlies out here in the Death-lands.

  “Well, you’re inside,” she said as he finished. “So where the hell is Gaza?”

  “Aced?” Fat Pete demanded, a note of urgency in his tone.

  Pouring more coffee, Ryan shook his head. “The best way I read it, he’s alive and down in the city. The APC was broken. Somebody ripped out some wires. He went down to find replacement parts.”

  Blowing air out his nose, Fat Pete glanced at the metal wall separating them from the city below. “Good,” he said gruffly. “Then he’s aced already and we can leave.”

  “Not yet,” Kate stated. “Baron Gaza is tougher than he looks and luckier than any ten escaped slaves. Fighting Gaza is like blacksmithing iron—the harder you hit it, the stronger it gets. Harder to chill than the original Trader.”

  “Ain’t that the bastard truth,” Ryan growled in agreement.