Latitude Zero

by James Axler

  His wag train had started off from an area north of N'Orleans, a nuke-ravaged wasteland, rife with mutie diseases and infested with gangs of roving chillers. Nearly a hundred folk, half of them children under the age of fifteen, had met together and agreed to move west.

  "Green grass, fresh water and a safe home" was how Major Ward put it.

  They'd heard from traders of Ward and had sent word to him to help put together a train of fifteen ox wagons and lead them into their Promised Land.

  Ryan had encountered such parties before, and Krysty herself had actually traveled on one. As was often the case, there was a strong—if primitive—religious feel to the group. Out of twenty-four men over the age of fifteen, no less than eight claimed to be self-ordained preachers.

  They'd been readying themselves for the evening meal before the arrival of the six outlanders. Now, once the credentials of Ryan and his friends had been offered and accepted, the women went back to their preparing and serving of the food.

  It was a stew of dried beef with small, bulletlike potatoes and good bread. From the scent in the air it was obvious that the settlers had brought their own oven with them. There were a half dozen milch cows with the group, but the milk was reserved for the younger children. Everyone else made do with warm, slightly brackish water.

  The stew was ladled onto smooth wooden dishes and passed around, but before anyone lifted a morsel toward their lips, Major Ward rapped on the side of a wagon with the butt of one of his pistols. "Quiet for the Reverend!" he shouted.

  A tall, frail man with a wispy white beard stood and pressed the palms of his hands together, closing his eyes and gazing heavenward with an expression of extraordinary beatitude. Ryan watched him through lowered lid, the thought crossing his mind that the preacher clearly considered that he was demeaning himself in speaking to the Almighty.

  "We're here, Lord, another day along the golden journey. You didn't help much when the Chapman wagon threw a wheel at the start of the day, but I guess Your attention might have wandered. Anyways, we repaired her and we got moving again. But'd be good if you could watch and make sure nothing like that happens again, Lord."

  Ryan hoped that God was paying attention and was looking suitably penitent for being so lax toward the wag train.

  "We got us some strangers so keep an eye open for them, Lord. If they're false then cause them to fall screaming into the pit of eternal fire and damnation, where their skin will scald and their eyes burst and hiss in the flames."

  Ryan was aware of a chorus of "Amens" all around them.

  The old man, Elder Vare, hadn't quite finished. "Bless us all that deserve the blessing, Lord, and make this food taste better than the pile of hogwash the cooks gave us last night. Name Father, Son and Ghost. Amen."

  "Amen," the assembly echoed, and there was an immediate rattling of cutlery on platters.

  Ryan caught Krysty's eye from across the narrow table and winked.

  The coffee sub was brought around by some of the teenage girls, led by the daughter of Elder Vare. A startlingly pretty blond girl with eyes of cornflower-blue, Sharon Vare seemed to be paying a lot of attention to Jak. In turn, the boy seemed oblivious to her interest. Ryan and the others watched with some amusement, but her father gestured angrily for her to get on and serve the rest of the party.

  "A girl who walks in beauty is a tinkling cymbal and a mote in the eye of decency," Elder Vare muttered piously.

  "A pretentious old fart is a pain in the ass," Ryan whispered to Krysty.

  Blankets were found for the six newcomers. After the rigors of the day and the disturbances of the previous night, all any of them wanted to do was to get some sleep. But Major Ward took Ryan by the arm after the meal was finished.

  "I'd like a word, son," he said in a tone of voice that made it clear it was more than just a casual request.

  "Sure. When?"

  "Now."

  "Where?"

  "Yonder. Just outside the wag ring. Still be inside the sentries. There's a couple of things I'd like to touch on."

  As they walked together past the outer wagons, the daughter of Elder Vare raced past them, her face flushed, patting at her mussed hair. A moment later, to their left, both Ryan and the wag master spotted a figure slipping between two of the canvas-topped rigs. There was enough light from the fires to see that it was a young boy, with hair like a Sierra winter.

  "That's one of the things, Ryan," Ward said.

  They stopped a few paces farther on. The night air was warm and soft, carrying the taste of sagebrush and mesquite. Ryan stretched and took a deep breath, facing the older man.

  "Kids'll be kids, Ward."

  "Not if one's the hot-thighs daughter of the leading elder."

  "His problem."

  The wag master shook his head. "No. If Elder Vare has a problem, then we all have a problem. Just try and keep the white-hair away from the girl, Ryan. That's all."

  "I'll speak to him. Jak's not a child. He's probably chilled more people than any man on this train. You don't tell Jak. But I'll speak to him. What else was it you wanted?"

  "I been around most places. Traveled these old blacktops most of my life. But I never been this close to the Grandee."

  "Me neither."

  "I heard about this Skullface. Seems he leads a bloody gang of coldhearts."

  Ryan looked across the desert. His mind touched on the strange whistle that he and Krysty had heard, but he decided to keep quiet about that. "Folks mentioned Skullface to us. Sounds like a mean son of a bitch, but you got blasters and you go careful."

  "Sure, Ryan. But that's not my big worry. I'm more taken by talk of muties."

  Ryan laughed. "Come on, Ward. There's always talk of muties."

  "Sure. But we passed a burned homestead five days back. Everyone was dead, and not a lot was left of most of 'em. Not after the muties, the coyotes and the buzzards finished with 'em."

  "Sure it was muties?"

  "Sure as I'm standing here. There were corpses of around a dozen of the bastards."

  "What sort of mutie?"

  "Stickies. Enough left of their hands to tell. And there was also some I never seen before. Real strange. What was left of the skins was like a lizard or a gator. You know?"

  "Scalies, Ward. Yeah. I don't recall hearing of two tribes of different muties running together. Could be a real nasty mix."

  The wag master stood in silence for a few moments. He pulled a worn briar from his pocket and stuffed some home-cure in it, got it burning and drew contentedly on it. "Care for some, Ryan?" he asked. "Got plenty in my rig."

  "No, thanks."

  "Reckon your arrival could be a matter of real providence, son."

  "How's that?"

  "Another day or so without food or water and you'd have been on your back looking at the sun."

  Since the scout wasn't aware of the proximity of Christina Ballinger's spread, Ryan decided not to mention it. Privacy and safety in Deathlands often came down to the same thing.

  "Yeah. Could be."

  "But the sword cuts both ways."

  "What?"

  "I heard your tale about being traders and losing your animals and all. Bullshit, Ryan. Pardon me, but it's bullshit. I seen mercies before."

  "We're not mercenaries, Ward."

  "You sure aren't traders, neither."

  Ryan nodded slowly, allowing his hand to fall, very naturally, toward the butt of the SIG-Sauer blaster in its holster. Ward saw the movement.

  "Have thirty guns here if you pull the trigger, Ryan."

  "Three hundred guns and you'd still be down and gut-shot."

  "That's a fact, son."

  "We aren't hired chillers, and we aren't traders. If you knew that, why d'you take us in?"

  The older man sighed and tapped the pipe on the heel of his boot, the tiny ball of glowing ashes falling into the sand. "Been around, son. Like to think I know folks. I don't see you murdering us in our bed, but with blasters like you got, you could sure
help out if we meet muties."

  "Or Skullface. If he exists."

  "Right, son. We feed you, and you stand at our shoulders if the muties come. That a deal?"

  Ryan shook the wag master's gnarled hand. "Yeah, that's a deal. Mebbe you feed us and we never need to do any fighting. Long as that goes on, I'll be happy, Ward."

  "Me, too, son."

  Their happiness didn't even last twenty-four hours.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED bright and clear, with a fresh breeze from the southwest.

  Ryan and the others watched, impressed, as the circle of wagons readied for the next part of their journey.

  Everyone seemed to know their particular task. Men and women packed and stowed, young boys collected the patient, lumbering oxen from the makeshift corral and led them to the rigs to be yoked, and the young girls began to prepare breakfast.

  The oven smoked and the camp was filled with the delicious aroma of fresh bread. Eggs were cooked in skillets over the embers of the night's fires, with slices of salted bacon.

  As soon as everyone had eaten, the dishes were scoured in dry, clean sand and packed away in the wagons. The youngest children had the important chore of making sure all the fires were stamped out.

  Within an hour of the dawn, they were ready to roll. Ryan spotted Major Ward and went along to join him.

  "Congratulations," he said.

  "How's that, son?" Ward asked, shifting a chew of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

  "You got a hundred people woken, oxen watered and tied on and everyone fed. All of that in just under the hour. Good work. Now we get going."

  "No."

  "No? Then…"

  The wag master simply pointed to the far side of the circle, where the skeletal figure of Elder Vare was stalking toward them, Bible firmly in his right hand, followed by his coterie of assorted preachers and women.

  "Morning prayers, before we go," Ward said gloomily. "Lose us around three hours' good traveling time."

  "Can't you tell him to go take…" began Ryan, but Ward shook his head.

  "He's party leader. Elected. They pay my jack for this job, which means Elder Vare pays me the jack. So, if he wants to pray the sun away, I just stand back and let him do it."

  "Me, I'd break his jaw," Ryan said. "Going across this part of Deathlands you can't waste time. Time's blood." But Elder Vare had his way. Since they were freeloading guests, Ryan and the others paid a token price by standing with the others as the preacher indulged himself. Ryan let his mind drift away, wondering about the mix of stickies and scalies that were reportedly in the area.

  "Teach us to smite thy enemies, Lord, if any appear. But we hope you'll be taking care to stop 'em coming close to us. Because we warn you now that we're humble and obedient servants who cringe at the shadow of your passing. But we aren't into that turning the other cheek crap! Just so's you understand, Oh mighty and merciful Jehovah!"

  And so it went on.

  And on.

  APART FROM THE drivers of the swaying wags and the very young children, everyone in the party walked. As long as the old prenuke blacktop held out, they could make good progress. But time and again an earth shift had broken the highway and the oxen were driven into the soft sand, slowing their pace to a bare crawl.

  Ward was one of the few people in the group who owned a horse, and he rode it all morning, moving constantly from front to rear and back again, encouraging the stragglers and slowing the enthusiastic leaders. After an hour he reined in along Ryan and the others.

  "Water! "he called.

  "Short?" asked Ryan, who'd wound the long white silk scarf, with its lethal weighted ends, around his mouth to mask off the worst of the choking dust.

  "You said it, son. Got us enough for another five, six days if we ration. Got me a map that shows water only a few miles ahead."

  "You send someone to check it out?" J.B. asked.

  Ward looked away, tipping his hat back and wiping sweat from his forehead. "Well, no. No, I haven't done that, Mr. Dix."

  The Armorer's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You got some map that mebbe shows you where there's water, less than an hour's ride on horseback! And you haven't sent anyone. Dark night! Why not?"

  "This Skullface guy and the muties. No point in sending a man alone, is there? And I can't send out an armed patrol and weaken the train."

  "Fucking shit!" Jak exclaimed. "Man alone scouts good."

  "You got no right to speak like that, kid! Not to—"

  "Don't call 'kid,' you—"

  Ryan laid a cautious hand on the teenager's arm. "Cool down, Jak. But he's right, Ward. You seriously telling me you don't have scouts out?"

  "I lead this train my way, and if you outlanders don't like it then just walk on."

  "Leave it," Mildred said. "A man has to do what a man has to do. That right, Major Ward?"

  "Guess so, ma'am."

  "So. Let's get on with the day."

  They breasted a rise and looked down onto a region dotted with the rusted relics of ancient oil-derricks, resembling the frozen corpses of prehistoric birds. The road straightened and cut almost due west, vanishing between walls of red rock. Krysty, shading her eyes, thought she could see some trees beyond the narrow ravine. But the shimmer of the heat haze made it difficult to make out any details.

  She told the wag master, who slapped his dusty hat against his thigh with a whoop of delight. "Well, if that ain't jug-drinking good news, little lady. Just where my map shows water!"

  J.B. stood next to Ryan, and he nudged him gently with his elbow. "Figure his map shows what an ace-on-the-line place for an ambush that ravine is?"

  Ryan didn't reply.

  THEY'D COME WITHIN a half mile of the opening of the steep-sided valley, its mouth yawning wider for every step closer.

  Ward held up his hand, shouting at the top of his voice "Wagons, whoa!" But the dust and the problems of communication meant that everything piled up, nose to tail, before the last rig finally braked to a reluctant halt.

  He heeled his horse to where Ryan and the others stood, to the leeward side, all looking at the highway ahead of them. They were joined by Elder Vare and his daughter, and several of the self-elected leaders of the party.

  "That's all, folks," the wag master said, a comment that for some unknown reason made Mildred and Doc grin at each other.

  The bewilderment grew as the black woman curled her lip, making her front teeth protrude, and said, "Eh, what's up, Doc?"

  Both of them broke into infantile giggles, drawing angry stares from the preachers.

  "Hold it down there," Ward said. "We figure there's water on t'other side of them there rocks, but we gotta make it through the pass to get there. The outlanders here been telling me they figure it could be a good place for a mutie ambush."

  "I think it'd be best to send in a recce party," Ryan suggested. "I'll go with a couple of others. Muties don't have much tactical brain, so there's a good chance we'll either spot them or maybe even trigger any ambush they got hidden."

  "Sounds good to me," Ward agreed. "By cracky, but it makes good sense. What d'you say, Elder Vare? Sound good?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  The thin face of the leading preacher looked away from Major Ward, up into the untroubled bowl of azure sky. "No," he repeated.

  Ryan opened his mouth, feeling one of the old surges of bloody anger dropping its crimson veil over his eye and over his mind. But with an enormous effort of will he didn't speak. He turned away, fists clenching in the struggle.

  Vare spoke again, folding his hands sententiously and pasting a thin half smile onto his chapped lips. "Why should we fear the peril of the valley of the shadow, Major Ward? Oh ye of very small faith! We don't give a mule's pecker about evil. The Lord is going to give us a shield and a sword and arm us with his own righteousness. Sure he is."

  "I hope that the Good Lord also sees fit to provide you all with some effective blasters, or your wi
ves and children are likely to have their faces removed by the sticky fingers of a legion of muties. Put that in your prayer book, Elder." Having delivered his broadside, Doc swung on his heel and stalked off, knee joints cracking noisily.

  "An unbeliever," Vare said dryly. "Let us go forward, Major Ward, if you please."

  Krysty stopped him. "The way I see it, Elder, the outlanders and those who don't believe in your version of the Almighty aren't worth bothering about. Is that right?"

  He looked down his nose at her. "Guess that's so."

  "Then let three of us go on ahead and see if muties are there. Won't harm your beliefs. Might save lives from your flock."

  "Let them, Pa," Sharon Vare urged. "I surely don't like the sound of them old muties, and I'm sure these folks know what's right." She favored Jak with a smile of glittering brilliance.

  "Well, if you approve, little Rose O'Sharon, then I guess the Almighty could be using you as a vessel for his wisdom. Kind of stupid, it seems to me, but we shouldn't question that the ways of the Lord are often goshdarned strange." Elder Vare glanced around at his supporters, getting nods of approval. None of them now seemed that keen on encountering any murderous muties without warning.

  "Very well, Major Ward. The responsibility lies with you. Let some of these strangers go forth and win my love."

  "Rather go third and win a toaster," Mildred whispered.

  RYAN WENT WITH Krysty and Jak, relying on them for eyesight and a speed of reaction above and beyond his own. He led the way, leaving his G-12 behind in the care of J.B., trusting to his hand blaster. Jak had his enormous .357 Magnum with its satin finish and gaping six-inch barrel. Krysty carried her smaller, 9 mm Heckler & Koch P7A 13.

  Farewells had been short. Ryan and Krysty were becoming used to separations. A slow, lingering kiss and a smile was all it took, and a "See you soon, lover" from one or the other. This time it was good to be going out together, with just a handshake for Doc, J.B. and Mildred.

  They covered the ground with a cautious speed, checking the pools of dark shadow within the canyon for any sign of movement.