Dark Carnival

by James Axler

  "But whatever you do, don't steal his blue suede fedora," she said.

  Mildred had gone for a completely new look, toe to toe. A black beret covered her plaited dreadlocks. She'd chosen a crisp white cotton shirt, a denim jacket with a quilted lining and reinforced military jeans tucked into calf-length boots in black proofed leather.

  "I'm greased and ready to kick ass," she proclaimed. "And you hippy bastards should know that rock and roll is here to stay." She caught Doc's eye and got her retaliation in first. "Brings out the thespian in me."

  Dean tugged at Ryan's sleeve. "Isn't that the name for a woman who sort of…you know…with another woman?"

  "Nearly, son, but not quite. Let's look at what you picked out for yourself."

  Dean hunched his shoulders shyly, uneasy at being the sudden center of attention from five grown-ups. He turned around slowly.

  "That's good," J.B. observed. "Shown a lot of sense there, Dean."

  "Like the jacket," Mildred added.

  "I'm almost tempted to obtain one of those fetching caps for myself," Doc commented.

  "Yeah." Krysty nodded. "Makes you look a whole lot better. And older."

  "Dad?"

  Ryan looked at him, feeling an unaccustomed swell of emotion. Dean was so eager to secure his approval that it was painful.

  "Let's see. Lined cap. Good dark blue color. Sensible peak to it. Keep the sun and the rain out of your eyes."

  "How about the rest of the stuff? I can always go change it if you—"

  "No. Looks fine. Dark blue shirt. Matching pants. I'd cut some of the metal loops and stuff out of the black denim jacket. Could snag on things. Belt's good, and the knife looks about right there on the hip. Boots comfortable?"

  "Sure. Smallest size they got. Didn't get them too tight 'cause my feet are still growing."

  "Right. No. You look a new man, Dean. I'm proud of you."

  "Honest?"

  "Honest."

  Krysty patted the boy on the arm. "Now let's look at just what Dad's picked out for himself."

  Ryan had chosen some new underclothes, adding a new shirt of blue denim. He also changed his pants, picking some heavy-duty, dark blue cloth. His combat boots were wearing a little, but they fitted his feet like sprayed plastic and he decided to keep them rather than face the hassle of having to break in a fresh pair. He kept his trusty long coat. The white silk scarf with the weighted ends remained around his neck.

  "Look almost the same," Dean said.

  "Way I like it, son." Ryan looked at Krysty. "Don't see much alteration with you, either."

  "I've got clean clothes on from top to bottom, and it feels real good. I'm going to try and get a hot bath later to go with the gear."

  She looked crisp and fresh, her dazzlingly red hair curling over her shoulders. Krysty had gotten a white shirt and a pair of the dark blue pants, with a matching jacket. She'd retained her trusty Western boots with the embroidered silver falcons.

  J.B. leaned against the wall. "We look like a load of sec men," he said wryly.

  Dean caught his father's eye, and Ryan nodded, unable to hold back the smile. "Yeah," he said. "Now we go look at the blasters."

  Chapter Fourteen

  J.B. WAS IN the nearest thing he knew to heaven on earth. The state of the weapons section of the redoubt's stores seemed initially to confirm the feeling that the evacuation of the whole complex had, for some unguessable reason, been abandoned halfway through. Otherwise, it was unthinkable that the armament section wouldn't have been stripped clean.

  As soon as they entered the area, with its printed warnings about sec-clearance ratings, J.B. stopped and closed his eyes, taking in several deep breaths.

  "Oil, grease and perfectly machined metal," he said quietly.

  "The holy of holies, John?" Mildred asked, smiling at him.

  But he didn't respond to her. He was busy looking along the ordered rows and shelves. "Enough here to equip an army and rule all of Deathlands," he said.

  That eventually proved to be something of an exaggeration.

  As they examined the section, it became clear that an attempt had been made to evacuate some of the weapons. The areas of the storage complex where grens, machine guns, mortars and heavy armament had been stored were stripped bare.

  Also, a lot of the crates held only spare mags, sights and replacement parts.

  Even so, there was still a fair array of infantry blasters and ammo.

  Dean turned to his father, who shrugged and pointed to J.B. "He's the man for blasters. If there's anyone in Deathlands who knows more about weapons than the Armorer here, then I haven't met him yet."

  "I want a Magnum. Bit .357. Blow a hole in a wall."

  J.B. shook his head. "First thing you learn, Dean, is to pick your weapons to fit yourself. You fire a Magnum, and there's an even chance someone your age and size'll snap his wrist. And the bullet's wasted, straight up in the ceiling."

  "Then I want—"

  "Not a question of what you want. Question of what's the best weapon for you."

  "Why can't—"

  The Armorer lifted his right hand, touching the boy gently on the lips with his index finger. "Quieter," he said. "That's better. Remember that we're all a team. Might be a time your life depends on me. Might be a time my life's on the line, and you're the way out for me. You need the best blaster there is, for what you need."

  "A .38?"

  J.B. smiled. "No. A good .22."

  Dean looked like someone had just placed a dead slug on his tongue. "A .22? Give me a fuckin' break, you—"

  His sentence got cut off by a round-arm blow from Ryan. Halfway between a slap and a punch, it knocked the boy flying, flat on his back, sliding against the wall. He lay there, dazed, one hand touching his mouth where a thread of blood was worming down over his chin.

  "What d'you—"

  Ryan knelt by his son, the crimson anger still glittering in his good eye, his mouth a razored line. "You listen, and you listen good! I warned you and warned you, and you still don't take any notice of me."

  "You still didn't—"

  "Oh, yes, I did. Fireblast, but I did, Dean! You spent most of your life running, dodging and hiding. I understand that. You come with us, and you'll see a different life. A life where you don't take shit from anyone. A life of standing and fighting. Together. You got that?"

  "Sure." He sat up. "But—" ,

  Ryan helped the boy to his feet. "No 'buts' about it, Dean. What J.B. said was right. We each carry the lives of the others right here in the palm of our hand. And that means you, too."

  "I'm sorry, Dad." He turned to the Armorer. "And I'm sorry, J.B., as well."

  "A .22," J.B. said, as though Ryan's flaring anger had never erupted. "But a good one. Not a Saturday-night special that falls apart on you. Most of the chilling gets done at a range of less than fifteen feet. I've found you a blaster that you can work with. Then you can put a man down with it, eyes open at the sky, ten times from ten."

  "And it'll be light enough for you to heft without any problem," Ryan added.

  "Thought about a Ruger Mark II," J.B. said, looking through a stock inventory list he'd found hanging on a nail. "But it's stainless steel and more of a target gun. Looks nice, like the Luger parabellum, but this is better."

  "What is it?" Dean asked eagerly.

  "Smith & Wesson Model 425. Lightweight alloy frame. Rimfire, holding ten rounds. Here…"

  The boy took the blued gun from the Armorer's hands. "Light," he said.

  "Sure. Look, it's got edging and fluting to cut down on reflections. Walnut grips. Adjustable sights. Chamber's over the trigger. Nice design, based on the 422. Enclosed hammer."

  "What's this? Safety?"

  "No. That's above the left grip. By the slide-release catch. That's the mag-release catch on the front grip strap."

  Ryan caught Krysty's eye, both of them struck by the look of wonderment on the boy's face.

  "Can I try it out?"

  The
Armorer shook his head. "I'll give you a box of a hundred rounds, and you and me'll go to the range I saw at the end of the passage. So wait. While we're all looking around, get yourself a decent holster."

  "Sure, J.B., and thanks."

  Neither Doc nor Mildred could be persuaded to change their firearms.

  The old man stuck with his bizarre Le Mat, the nineteenth-century revolver with its scattergun barrel. J.B. tried to persuade him to take a modern automatic.

  "I'm really most awfully grateful, my dear chap. But I shall carry on with this until I finally run out of ammunition for it."

  "As long as I can get Smith & Wesson .38s, I'll keep with my ZKR 55," Mildred said. "If there's a better target pistol around, I haven't found it yet."

  "How about you, Krysty?" the Armorer said. "That old Heckler & Koch is a bit past its best now, isn't it?"

  "I'm used to it. You got a better idea?"

  "Sure." He unpacked a shrink-wrapped weapon. "Here, stainless and smooth. No snags on it. Smith & Wesson double-action. Six-forty model. Only five shot, but it's real compact. Close combat. Two-inch barrel. Weighs around twenty ounces. Why not bring it to the range and try her out?"

  "Sure," she agreed, hefting the little blaster.

  "Ryan, that Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless is a real fine weapon. But you know the problems we've been having in getting ammo for it. There's none listed for it in this redoubt."

  "Oh, come on. I've learned to love this baby."

  "Once the baby runs dry, she's a piece of scrap metal, Ryan."

  "Best I had for what we want."

  J.B. rubbed a thumb thoughtfully along the angle of his jaw. "Reckon we should think this through. We got blasters. All of us. What we need now is a really fine long gun. You're the best shot, Ryan."

  "Sniper's rifle?"

  The Armorer nodded. "They got a case of Steyr SSG-70s. Bolt action, 10-round with a neat little nightscope and laser image enhancer. All we need, really."

  "What's it fire? The 7.62 mm round?"

  "Right. Pick them up anywhere."

  Doc coughed. "Far be it for me to interrupt this highfalutin and exceedingly expert conversation, but Mildred and I are becoming a little bored. We shall return and brew up some more of that execrable coffee-sub."

  "Sure," Ryan agreed, barely listening to the old man. All his thoughts were concentrated on the blaster needs of the group. He grudgingly agreed with J.B. that the G-12 had finally had its day for him.

  "Then we need something as a real close stopper and some sort of machine pistol," he said.

  "How about your handgun?"

  "I'll stick with the SIG-Sauer. No reason to change. Nine mill ammo's all over the place. What about you? Ditch the Steyr and get an Uzi? Something like that, J.B.?"

  "They got six of the Uzi pistols. Not the mini-Uzis. Twenty rounds of nine mill. Looks about as pretty as a drowned stickie. Give us instant saturation fire when we want that."

  Ryan looked at the snub little blaster approvingly. "Leaves you shy a long gun. What's it to be? Big pump-action stopper?"

  "Better."

  "Better, J.B. Do tell."

  The Armorer was smiling. "Come look." He walked along the avenue of shelving, ticking off numbers from the inventory listing. "Here it is," he announced.

  "Smith & Wesson. The M-4000," Ryan said. "Seen them before. Twelve gauge, holds eight rounds. Pistol grip and a folding butt. What's so special about that?"

  J.B. beckoned to him, pointing to some boxes of ammo. "Haven't seen these before, have you, old buddy?"

  "Flechettes," read the one-eyed man. "What the fuck's a flechette?"

  "Nail with fins," the Armorer replied. "Here. I'll show you."

  There were two different kinds of boxes of shotgun rounds, all marked 12G Flechette.

  Some were manufactured by Remington, and others carried the name of Winchester-Olin. J.B. broke open a box of each, showing them to Ryan, Krysty and Dean. He tore a red Winchester round in half, picking out a number of tiny nails from the white plastic packing. Each was about an inch in length, very thin, with little flights at the blunt end.

  "Get twenty of these little bastards in a single round," J.B. said, offering them to the other three.

  "Very sharp," the boy said, looking at a pearl of blood on the ball of his thumb where he'd tested one of the flechettes.

  "How about accuracy?" Ryan asked.

  Krysty was looking at the contents of one of the green Remington cartridges. The slender miniarrows were packed into black granules of plastic.

  "Vicious," she said quietly.

  J.B. .answered Ryan's question. "First off they found, back in the days of the Nam War, that they tended to tumble when they were fired. That brought the effective accurate range to over a hundred feet. By then they'd straightened out and were lethal. Other thing is, they aren't too great in undergrowth. No penetration."

  "Which rounds you going to take?" asked Dean.

  "Read someplace that the Remington had better penetration and tighter grouping. So, I'll take their spare ammo."

  "You boys go and play with your new toys," Krysty said. "I'll join Mildred and Doc."

  In fresh clothes and newly armed, Ryan, J.B. and Dean went to the range to do some test firing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE RANGE WAS at the farthest end of the redoubt and was obviously only the thickness of one wall away from the outside. It was extremely warm. The concrete was filmed with moisture and covered in a coating of iridescent lichen.

  There were also a number of holes at floor level, particularly in the corners of the shooting range, some of them more than a foot in diameter.

  Dean noticed them and asked what they were. "Look like rat holes to me," he said, "but they're double-big."

  Ryan bent and tried to peer into one, wrinkling his nose. "Stinks seriously evil inside. Can't see anything."

  "The internal door's sec steel," J.B. said. "If they get in here, they can't get anywhere else. Whatever they are."

  Dean had quickly gotten used to his new possession, firing under the Armorer's instruction. The range was only forty yards long, and all of the targets had rotted years ago. But J.B. ripped up some old veneer boards to use, propping them against the damp sand at the far end.

  "Slow and easy. Sight and squeeze. Don't jerk at the trigger."

  At first the boy squinted, closing his left eye as he sighted along the barrel of the weapon, and managed to get most of the bullets inside a two-foot circle.

  "How's that?" he asked proudly.

  "Good," J.B. replied, bringing a smile to Dean's lips—and removing it immediately. "But a country mile shy of good enough."

  "Why?"

  "Your father here shoots one-eyed. The gods didn't give him much choice. He's been like that since he was young. Got used to it. Become a better than adequate shot. Specially with a long gun."

  "I thought you had to close one eye."

  J.B. shook his head. "No. Certainly not with a handgun. Some think it's better with a rifle. I don't, myself. Like I say, it's a matter of opinion. But with a blaster like this, you keep them both open. You got that? Then try it."

  Dean fired the small pistol, the ten rounds running, into each other like a continuous explosion of sound. J.B. waited until he heard the hammer fall on an empty chamber, then started to walk up to check the target.

  Ryan turned to his son. "Small point, Dean, Try and count shots so it gets to be a habit. You got an enemy in a firefight and he hears that dry click, he knows you're empty. And he comes looking for you."

  "Oh, yeah."

  "And try standing side-on. Smaller target. While we're here, with plenty of ammo, practice a lot. You won't get a better chance."

  "How many men have you killed, Ryan?" the boy asked, reloading the blaster.

  "Do that with your eyes shut."

  "What?"

  "Reload. In the dark. On your belly. On your back. One-handed. Other-handed."

  "Yeah."

 
; J.B. was walking back with the piece of plywood in his fist.

  "Better. Not much more than a foot spread this time. Better."

  The boy grinned at him. "But still not good enough… by a country mile."

  "It's not bad. But you gotta remember this is calm and friendly, and you and me and Ryan. Warm and dry and well lit, and a target that sits there and smiles at you."

  "Sure." Dean looked at his father. "Didn't answer my question."

  "What?"

  "My question."

  J.B. took the Smith & Wesson from the boy. He worked the action a couple of times, head on one side to listen to it. "Nice. Keep it oiled, Dean. You stop looking after your weapons, and you fill six of cold wet dirt. Right?"

  "Sure."

  "What was his question, Ryan?" the Armorer asked, handing back the blaster.

  "How many?"

  J.B. turned to look at the boy, his eyes invisible behind the polished lenses of his spectacles, his sallow face curiously blank. "You want to know how many your father's chilled?"

  "Yeah."

  "No, you don't."

  "Why?"

  "Chilling's a craft, like any other. You learn it. Learn it hard. Ryan hasn't kept score of the men. The women. The children. Oh, yeah, Dean…there's been plenty of kids sent off on that last train to the coast."

  Ryan held his son by the shoulders and stooped to look directly into his face. "You don't count the eyes. The spilled guts. The severed fingers. The blood boiling from the groin. The screams. The open mouths and the white lips. Splintered teeth and ripped flesh. You don't count any of that. The best—the very best—you can hope for is to forget some of it."

  "But you do that…because you have to. Yeah? So, doesn't that make it right?"

  J.B. answered him. "There's no such thing as a good war, Dean. But there's sometimes such a thing as a right war. Same with chilling."

  "Talk's cheap and time's passing," Ryan said. "Let's try out the other new blasters."

  "Not worth bothering with your Steyr rifle," the Armorer stated.

  "Guess not. Need a lot more distance to try and sight it in."

  "How about that machine pistol, J.B.?"

  The boy's question went unanswered by the Armorer who simply cocked the snub automatic and pumped all twenty rounds at a ragged sheet of wood.