by James Axler
FOR SEVERAL HEARTBEATS nothing happened at all.
Ryan laid his new Steyr rifle by his feet, letting his pistol remain in its holster. Both Krysty and Mildred put down their blasters, and Doc, snuffling with anger, drew the Le Mat and placed it carefully on the raked gravel. J.B. put the shotgun down.
Dean had remained frozen in place, the .22 Smith & Wesson gripped in his right hand.
"Kid puts down his little toy. One-eyed man and the runt with the glasses better dig out those automatics and get them in the dirt. Fast, people!"
Ryan sighed and took the P-226 from its holster and placed it on the path, butt towards him, ready for a last despairing grab. J.B. also put down his new Uzi.
Dean didn't move.
"Don't wanna chill a kid, but he gets powdered in five secs from now if he hangs on to his blaster. Five and countin', people."
Ryan turned to his son, seeing the tightness of the boy's jaw and the blank stare in his eyes. All around them the amplified count was down to three.
"Two."
He took the couple of steps and gripped his son by the wrist, feeling the fragile strength in the boy's bones and muscles.
"Give it me, Dean," he demanded. "Or we all go down in a river of blood."
His son's face looked up at him. "Rona said never give in," he whispered.
Ryan took the Smith & Wesson from the unresisting fingers and put it carefully down. "Your mother was part right. But Trader used to say that he who doesn't fight but runs away, lives to run away another day. Get it?"
"Yeah." He cracked the shadow of a smile. "Yeah, I get it."
There were a few moments of almost total silence, broken only by the hissing of the concealed speakers. Then the voice came back, softer.
"Done good, one-eyed man. Now just stand a few paces off from the blasters, and me and some of my men'll come out from cover and take you all to have a talk with Boss Larry."
Ryan looked round at J.B., standing almost at his elbow. "Boss Larry?" he mouthed.
"No." The Armorer shook his head. "Must be the local baron, I guess."
From behind the tall screen of trimmed yew trees, the first of the hidden sec men made his appearance. He was holding an 8-shot, Government Model Colt .45. His uniform was a camouflage jacket and pants in a variety of shades of green and brown, and he wore polished combat boots. There was a dark green beret on his head. He looked around thirty and had a casual professionalism that hinted at some efficient training somewhere up the line.
He had four silver stripes on his left sleeve.
"Best of the day to you, people. Welcome to the ville of Greenglades. Home of the Baron Boss Larry. I'm called Kelly, and I'm in charge of the squad of general layabouts and vagabonds you see emerging from the bushes around you."
There were ten in the patrol, all armed with identical Colt blasters, all in the same uniform and showing the same sort of alertness as the noncom, Kelly. They kept a careful distance from the six friends, making sure each one was covered.
Any kind of move against the sec men would have been instant suicide. Seeing they had only handguns, Ryan had considered risking a firefight. But that would almost certainly have left some of them down and dying.
So far, everyone was still alive.
So far.
"Not very talkative bunch of outlanders, are you?"
Ryan looked at the stocky figure. "Haven't had much chance to get a word in."
Kelly laughed. "Right. Right, my one-eyed friend."
"You taking us to the baron?" J.B. asked.
"Course. Any objection?"
"No. Getting bored with waiting."
"You I like also. Maybe we'd better just run some names by me. So I can introduce you properly to Boss Larry."
"I'm Ryan Cawdor. Boy here's my son, Dean."
"And where do y'all come from, Ryan Cawdor and your son, Dean?"
Ryan waved a hand vaguely toward the trees. "Around," he said.
"Sure. Rest of your names? Ladies?"
"Krysty Wroth."
"Dr. Mildred Wyeth."
"Doctor? Like you heal people? Cure them of croup, mumps, measles, the pox, the flux, the wasting sickness and—"
Mildred held up a hand. "Yeah, but not all of them at once."
Kelly laughed. "Sense of humor. Like that. My best point is my sense of humor. So they tell me." He looked at Doc Tanner. "How about you, old-timer? You got a name?"
"Of course I have a name, you pumped-up little parakeet! My name is Dr. Theophilus Tanner and before you ask me, I will not be curing any pox or flux. Or any other illness, if it comes to that. My doctorate is in science and not in medicine."
The muzzle of the big Colt moved a little to center on the old man's belt buckle. "I like a sense of humor, but don't like lippy pricks that think they're better than the rest of the baron's creatures. You reading me, Dr. Tanner?"
Doc nodded. "I accept the rebuke, Mr. Kelly. A touch of verbal dysentery has always been one of my vanities."
"Vanities? What the sucking death are they?"
"Weaknesses. I have many vanities, my dear fellow. So many that I sometimes think that I should consign them all to a large bonfire."
Kelly looked him slowly up and down. "You I might like. Again, I might not. How about you? Little guy with the punch-packing blaster. Incidentally, people, I never seen any outlanders traveling with such an interesting mess of hardware. Where d'you—" He stopped as if a thought had just struck him. "Yeah, that's for the Boss. Just your name for now."
"Name's J. B. Dix. Can we pick up our blasters?"
Kelly laughed, head back, eyes wrinkling with amusement. Ryan thought the man was probably one of the most coldhearted killers he'd ever seen. Then again, a man could always be wrong.
One baron he'd met, up on the edge of the Darks, had a woman sec chief who'd looked like everyone's favorite granny. But Ryan had personally seen the apple-cheeked old lady hack open a prisoner's chest and tear out his lungs.
You never could tell.
"We'll carry your blasters for you, Mr. Dix. You, and all your outlander companions. Maybe the baron'll let you have them back." He added after a calculated pause, "And maybe he won't."
"I'd like to see you walking in a nice line. Keep a couple of yards gap. Mr. Cawdor first, then the ladies and the funny old man. Mr. Dix comes last of all."
"What about me?" Dean asked, the first words he'd spoken since they'd been taken prisoner.
Kelly narrowed his eyes. "Your name was… ? What was it?"
"Dean."
"You walk along with me, son. So if your daddy or any of them get foolish ideas, then I get to blow the side of your head all over the path. What a mess, what a mess!" He put on a silly, squeaky little voice. "Blood and brains and itsy-teeny sharp bits of bone all everywhere."
Ryan caught his eye. "We going to stay here and hear you jerking off all day, or do we get to meet the baron?"
The smile vanished like late frost off a sun-warmed roof. "Sure," Kelly said. "Yeah, sure."
THE PATROL OF SEC MEN had been well trained. They kept a safe distance from their prisoners, some walking ahead and some behind. Kelly strolled amiably at the front, occasionally pointing something out to the young boy, who mostly kept silent.
It was an amazing ville.
Ryan had seen pix in old mags and vids of the theme parks that sprang up toward the end of the twentieth century. There were wild rides through tottering webs of steel while everyone screamed. He knew there were also different kinds of attractions, most of them aimed at children.
"What was this place called, pre-dark?" he shouted to Kelly.
The noncom glanced over his shoulder. "Nowhere else like this in all Deathlands. Used to be called Greenglades Theme Park. Best in Florida."
At last they knew for certain where the jump had landed them. It wasn't all that far from one of their earlier adventures in the heart of the bayous. Home of young Jak Lauren.
"What's it called now?"
Kelly laughe
d. "Still the same. Greenglades ville. Like it?"
Ryan nodded. "Like you say. I never seen nothing like it before."
Krysty whispered at his shoulder. "Anything. Not nothing. Anything."
A HUGE AMOUNT OF JACK had been expended on bringing the old park up to its present state, and an impressive quality of technical expertise.
Even the old signs had been repainted, telling what the attractions were named.
They walked past several. Some were what Mildred told them had been called roller-coaster rides, where people were strapped into little cars and sent hurtling at speeds that defied gravity and death.
"They took you over, under and around. Up and down and through. Backward, forward and inside and out."
"I recall a visit to Coney Island," Doc said, "where I ate some hideous pink confection like sugared mist. I threw baseballs at coconuts and tried to win a Kewpie doll with a missighted Winchester. And I rode a Swirly-Whirly."
"Like it, Doc?"
"I fear not, my dear Mildred. I went with my friend, Brutus Featherstonehaugh. Brutus was sick in an omnibus, and I was sick in my hat."
Kelly looked around. "Keep the noise down, people. Not far from Centerpoint."
They'd gone by the Undersea Cruise and the Pharaoh's Curse, past what had once been some kind of fast-food eatery but was now a sec base. Paraglide Paradise was a huge tower with chutes clipped on to steel cables. A massive ship hung from a sort of pendulum; the name on the sign was Billy Bones' Brain-Basher.
"Hey, Kelly?" J.B. called.
"Yo?"
"Who goes on all these rides?"
"Boss Larry."
"Nobody else?"
"Sure. Friends and helpers."
Doctor Phibe's House of Mystery and Illusion was a cavelike attraction, with its entrance designed to look like the rot-tooth jaws of a scabrous skull. Next to it was Mehitabel's Carousel. A sign near a low gate read If You Are Too Tall To Go Through Here Without Stooping, Then You Don't Get To Ride The Ride. Sorry.
Ryan noticed that his son was, despite his natural reserve, becoming entranced by the wonders he saw offered on every side. He was now talking animatedly to the sec man, tugging at his sleeve to attract his attention.
Kelly turned around once and saw Ryan watching him speaking to Dean. The sec man's lips curled into something like a merry smile, but his eyes remained as cold as sierra meltwater.
"How much farther to meet the baron?" Mildred called.
"That's Centerpoint up ahead. Step it out, people."
Now they could see their destination.
It was a tower about two hundred feet high, with a wider part on its top. Which, Ryan noticed, appeared to be revolving slowly in a clockwise direction. It was filled with windows.
It was an amazing structure, and it seemed to be in perfect condition.
Kelly held up a hand, and the patrol stopped smartly. The prisoners shuffled to a less formal halt.
"How come all this stuff from before the long winters is still standing?" Krysty asked.
"Lot of questions, little lady. Better save them for Boss Larry. But I can tell you the answer is neutron bombs. Not that a pretty filly like you'll have heard of those beauties."
"Don't be a double-stupe," she said. "Bombs that kill life and leave buildings."
"Well, yeah."
There were two light machine-gun emplacements on either side of the entrance. Inside, Ryan could make out at least a dozen more sec men standing around. He glanced behind, seeing the oddly deserted paths winding among the greenery. The sky was an almost colorless blue, and the intense humidity of the early morning had abated.
"Ready, people. Boss Larry's up top this time of day, watching his world go by him. So, we'll all go to him."
Dean rejoined his father. "Kelly says we can mebbe go on some of the rides. Wouldn't that be a hot pipe?"
"Yeah," said Ryan, who hadn't the least idea what a "hot pipe" was, but got the general drift.
THERE WAS A BANK of six elevators.
Kelly took Dean into one of them, his blaster drawn and resting, so casually, against the side of the boy's head. The others went separately, each with two of the sec men. It was a fine chance for Ryan to chill the guards with him, but it would have been a pointless exercise.
The numerals above the sliding doors clicked all the way to Roof.
There were more of the guards on the top floor, each dressed in the same camouflage gear, each holding a Colt that was in immaculate condition.
The entire tower top was a large, circular room with a number of chairs and sofas scattered about it. A few of the windows had draperies of deep purple, but most were uncovered. Ryan noticed some antique vid games on one side, most with screens alight with flickering colors and shapes.
An oval table was covered with the remains of a gargantuan breakfast. Polished metal dishes held a few shreds of scrambled egg or a dried rasher of bacon. Another one, shaped like a tureen, held the scummy dregs of some sort of fish chowder. A pile of pancakes had tumbled wearily in on itself, soaked in a spilled pool of syrup.
The air was dusty and filled with the pungent, acrid odor of good grass.
Dimly visible, across the far side of the room, was a very large chair, almost as big as a throne in a kids' storybook. It swiveled, but the sunlight left the occupant in darkness.
"Outlanders, Boss Larry," Kelly said. "Let me introduce them to you."
The voice was obscenely rich and thick, like bubbles through whipped cream. "Two of them I know already from a long time back. John Dix and Ryan Cawdor. I swore when last we met that I'd kill them when I saw them next. And now I will."
The only sound in the stillness of the slowly revolving room was a click as a machine pistol was cocked.
Chapter Twenty
"MY KNIFE'D BE in your eye before either of them hit the floor."
There was a long stillness that seemed to stretch beyond belief. Ryan heard Kelly whisper a curse under his breath. Out of the corner of his good eye, he could see that his son had slithered away to the right, drawing the turquoise-hilted knife. To hit the man who sat veiled in black shadow would have tested the edges of even Jak's skill, and the albino boy had been the best with a throwing knife that Ryan had ever seen.
Then again, Boss Larry wasn't to know that.
"Is that a dwarf or a child, Kelly?"
"Kid. Cawdor's son."
"Have you allowed them all to keep their knives, Kelly?"
"Yeah, Boss. Sorry."
The figure moved slightly. "I know the one-eyed man and the small one with the glasses. Put them in a room with six of your best. Them just with knives, and ours with their Colts. I wouldn't give you odds, Kelly, about who would walk from the room. They're two of the most dangerous men in all the length and breadth of Deathlands."
Then Ryan knew him.
"Larry Zapp," he said. "Least, that was what you called yourself back then. Fireblast, it must be at least ten, twelve years."
J.B. remembered him, too. "Up on the west side of the Big Lakes. Ran a traveling gaudy. Dozen girls and a couple of wags. Sure."
They heard a throaty laugh. The figure shifted slightly, and Ryan saw light dancing off the man's hands. "Same old people. Trader taught you boys well. Never thought you'd both still be living. Deathlands is hard on men like us."
Larry Zapp. The memory came cautiously forward, like a child entering an adults' party, uncertain of its welcome.
They'd been up near where Duluth would have been if it hadn't been wiped off the map by a massive earth shift that had sent parts of the lakes flooding southward and westward. The Trader had been checking out reports of a baron who'd discovered a huge store of gasoline and was ready to do some business.
In the end the story had been, as most were, grossly exaggerated.
But Larry Zapp had been up there with two wags, converted from Winnebagos, the insides stretched and cut around to provide cubicles for six women in each of the brightly painted vehicles. He had t
hree hired guns who did nothing but sit around drinking cheap liquor and taking some of their wages out in jolt. Every now and again they'd get to kick the shit out of a dissatisfied customer who wanted his jack back. But Zapp ran a good, tight gaudy, and trouble didn't come very often.
But, Ryan remembered, the big man had been greedy.
Way back then, Larry had been around two-fifty pounds, with a shoulder-length mane of greasy hair, the selling line had been Cold Beer And Hot Women. And in most frontier pestholes that had been all it took.
But Larry Zapp had gotten greedy.
Who had it been? Was it Henn, the tall, black guy with a lacerating sense of humor? Or was it Cohn, their radio operator? Ryan couldn't remember, and it didn't much matter. It had been one of the male crew members of War Wag One. That was certain.
One of the whores… Bernice, that was her name! Tall, skinny part-Indian with one ear missing. Larry had used her to try to bribe the crewman to betray the Trader and his wags to the local baron.
The Trader had found out about it and sent Ryan and J.B., as his head honchos, to talk to the foolish and greedy Mr. Zapp.
"I could've died, you sons of bitches," Zapp said, his voice breaking into Ryan's threads of distant memory.
"You threw the dice," J.B. replied. "You get snakes' eyes and you don't whimper for your mommy. You didn't die, because we didn't chill you. Simple as that."
"And now it's my turn to cast the dice again, John Dix."
"Yeah."
Ryan recalled that Larry Zapp had carried a cutthroat razor up his sleeve. He wasn't a man you turned your back on.
After they'd called on the brothel keeper, both his vans had been burned-out wrecks, the column of oily smoke rising in an unbroken pillar into the chill fall sky. His girls had fled, accepting the suggestion from Ryan that their health depended on their traveling at least two hundred miles in any direction.
Two of his watchmen were on their backs with rain falling in their eyes. The third one had vanished.
And Larry Zapp was still alive.
He was hurting some, but he was still breathing. Both his elbows were broken, the result of having been kicked by steel-tipped combat boots; both his knees had gone the same way; one shoulder was dislocated; both the collarbones had been snapped; several fingers were bent back and swollen; five ribs had given into the kicking.
