by James Axler
"Can't wait to get back to her Dark Lord," Finn said, ruefully.
They tried the punch. Ryan wrinkled his mouth at the taste. It was flavored with herbs and obviously was strongly alcoholic. But as he rolled it cautiously around his mouth, he detected a strange, bitter aftertaste. He spat it out on the earthen floor.
"Fireblast! That's evil stuff."
J.B. put his mug down on the table. "Don't care for it. Tastes like wolfbane."
Lori had taken more than a bit of it before her face showed her dislike. "Not like," she said.
"Seems drinkable," belched Finnegan. "Bit of… yeah, not so good."
Okie, Krysty and Doc put down their beakers, untasted. Ryan looked across at J.B. biting his lip, knowing that the Armorer shared his doubts. But neither of them said anything. After all their years together, they didn't need to.
Ryan tipped the bowl in a dark corner of the room. The punch flowed into the dirt and left only a faint damp patch. When Herne returned, he seemed pleased to find that the punch was gone.
"I shall leave you now to sleep. Our celebrations begin at dawn. I doubt they will disturb you."
TOWARD MIDNIGHT Finnegan fell asleep, snoring loudly. J.B. checked him, the light of the dying fire reflecting redly off his glasses. "Seems well out. Can't wake him easily. Heart's all right. Breathin's deep but steady. Best take turns to watch him."
The hut shook as a momentary earthquake vibrated across the land. Tremors had become so common that nobody even noticed them.
They quickly arranged a roster to sleep so that one of them would always be awake, checking that Finn wasn't ill. Ryan guessed Finn couldn't have drunk enough of the punch to do him any permanent harm. But the mere idea of it was enough to make them more cautious overall. Okie agreed to sleep across the doorway, and all of them kept their blasters ready and primed. J.B. suggested breaking out, there and then, taking Henn with them, but Ryan was for patience.
"The food was fine and it doesn't seem dangerous here. Plus we're warm. It might not have been a sleeper in the drink—could be just strong liquor. Finn hasn't had any for weeks now. We'll watch 'em."
RYAN CAWDOR AND KRYSTY WROTH were now accepted by the others as a couple. They went together, drove together and slept together. Once in the redoubt, Okie had made a play for Ryan in front of Krysty, putting her hand directly on the front of his trousers, smiling at his instant reaction, glancing at Krysty.
"Looks like he's ready for a fuckin' change," she had said.
Ryan had tensed, ready to deck her with a roundhouse right, pulling himself away from her grasp.
Krysty moved toward Okie, smiling at her with even white teeth. "Ever try anythin' like that again, slut, and I'll put two holes through the back of your head."
Ryan had rarely heard such menace in a human voice. Okie backed off, her eyes flicking nervously from Krysty to Ryan. "Only a joke, Krysty. Can't you take a fuckin' joke?"
"Yeah. See me laughin'? Make sure, Okie, you know the difference between a threat and a promise. Then you'll know what that was."
Okie never tried it again.
Now Krysty and Ryan were pressed together in a single bed, like spoons in a box. She faced away from him, her hair brushing against his chest, making his nipples feel tender. He almost immediately became erect, but both of them were sleeping fully dressed, even down to their boots. But she could still feel his need for her.
"Have to be a quickie, lover," she whispered.
"Better than nothin'. Want a hand?"
"No. You handle your part and I'll do the rest."
While he unzipped his trousers, she wriggled out of hers, pulling them down to her knees. She kept her panties on, moving them to one side to accommodate him. He felt the warmth of her muscular buttocks cupping him and he slid easily into her warm waiting depths. She moaned softly at the size that slowly filled her. He moved in faster and deeper, keeping the rhythm even so that she could share his pleasure.
"Yes, lover," Krysty whispered. "Keep it for… yeah, that's good. Hold me tight."
As he came, Ryan threw his head back, arching his spine so that he could thrust against her as hard as possible. The girl moaned again, and he could feel her internal muscles fluttering and tightening as she reached her own driving climax.
They slept until near dawn, when J.B. came and shook Ryan by the shoulder.
"What?"',
"Turn out. It's close to first light. Your duty now. I've seen nothin' and heard nothin'."
Ryaa swung out of bed, hastily doing up his trousers.
"One other thing, Ryan," said J.B.
"What's that?"
"Sometime last night they locked the door on us, bolted it on the outside. Oh, and Finn's out colder than an iced mutie. But I figure he's goin' to pull through. His pulse is still regular and steady. I'll stay awake."
"Mebbe wake everyone else," suggested Ryan, standing up and stretching like a great cat.
"Yeah," agreed J.B.
Silently they got ready, leaving their chubby companion snoring quietly on his bed, his mouth sagging open. As they checked their weapons, Ryan saw that Lori was looking terrified.
"Don't worry," he said. "Just takin' care."
She nodded to him, her lips trembling.
Attractive though her gear had been, Ryan had insisted that Lori change before they'd left the redoubt. The tall blonde now wore dark green combat coveralls tucked into steel-capped boots of the type that Finnegan and Hennings wore. She'd kept her little pearl-handled Walther PPK .22 pistol and also the Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-2 silenced submachine gun that she'd toted around the stockpile.
"All ready?" he asked.
"Someone movin' out there," said Krysty, her ear pressed against the locked door. "Several people."
Ryan, who had known Krysty long enough to trust her amazingly acute hearing, moved to stand by her and saw the dawn's faint light around the edges of the door. There was also a crack of light near the center panel, where the thick wood had split. He put his eye to the crack but couldn't make out anything. Quietly he drew his panga and probed at the gap with the long blade, widening the split a little.
He squinted through it with his right eye.
Someone was standing near the other side of the door, blocking the view. Then the person moved and Ryan blinked at the sudden brightness. The sun had broken through the heavy cloud, giving a rare vision of a full dawn. He saw a space of trampled earth and snow immediately in front of the building; the broken wall, with its sinister, fire-blackened crucifix, faced him.
In front of the wall a low platform had been contrived from old wooden boxes. Resembling a rough table, the platform was about six feet by four feet. Several women, all hooded, were ranged around it, along with their leader, Ezekiel Herne. The rest of the community stood nearby in a half-circle, hands folded into their long sleeves.
"What's goin' on?" asked J.B.
"Can't tell. Some sort of ritual. Worshipin' the dawn or—"
Herne's ringing voice stopped Ryan's words. His breath pluming in the bitter cold, the priest said, "Accept this our sacrifice…the greatest we can offer. Take our Dark Lord."
He lifted his hand: Ryan saw that it contained a broad-bladed dagger of glittering obsidian. The women around the table parted, and at last he could see the object of their attention.
Bound with black ropes, naked and seemingly unconscious, lay Hennings.
The knife began to descend.
Chapter Fourteen
"Noooooo!"
Ryan's yell of rage was probably the only thing that could have checked the falling blade.
There was no time to fire a gun to save Henn, no time to blast open the door and ice the crazed priest. But the shout made Herne hesitate, and the blade slid past Henn's naked chest.
"Krysty, quick!" said Ryan.
The girl didn't need encouragement. Ryan's response had been so electric that it meant instant action.
With long, slender fingers, she gripped the edge of the
door where the frame was warped by the cold. Her eyes closed and her lips tightened. Through gritted teeth she whispered the incantation to enable her to draw on her hidden power.
"Mother, Earth Mother, help me. Help me… now!" The last word sounded as if it were torn from her heart.
Metal screeched and wood splintered and daylight burst into their room around the shattered door. Ryan was first out, followed immediately by Okie, then J.B., all of them opening fire on the murderous group.
Ryan's new G-12 was set on three-round bursts, giving him a lethal firing rate. The caseless bullets tore through the black-robed women standing around Hennings. Herne dropped to his hands and knees behind the altar, scuttling toward cover like an insect uncovered beneath a rock.
J.B. and Okie both fired their Mini-Uzis, handling the small guns almost as easily as if they were just pistols. Bodies spun and danced, carried by the streams of lead, tumbling to the chill stone tangled in frozen embraces.
During the firefight, time disappeared. Hours became minutes and minutes became seconds; seconds became shards of broken time. And one of those tiny shards stretched to a hundred lifetimes.
Ryan took his finger off the trigger, and looked around the open area between the buildings. Apart from four or five of the crazies who were moaning and crying for help, it was over.
"I'll take them," said Okie, stalking among the corpses, her boots splashing in blood. She set her blaster on single shot and, stooping and firing, put a round through the necks of all the wounded.
"Lori," ordered Ryan, "get Hennings untied and dressed. His clothes must be over there. Doc, go with her and keep watch. Might still be some of them around, and— That tall bastard, Herne, he's gone!"
"That way," said Krysty, her voice weak and strained. He spun around to see her leaning on the frame of the ruined door, her face as pale as parchment, a tiny thread of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.
"Where? You all right?"
"Sure. Just…I heard him run. Like a rat in a cellar. That way, behind the cross on the wall."
A burst of fire made Ryan duck, but it was only J.B., wasting an elderly man who'd come tottering out of a hut, waving a great cleaver with a chipped edge.
"I will not stay here. This place is now soiled with blood. I shall lead my children from this valley of dark abomination into the plain of lightness."
The apostle, Ezekiel Herne, had appeared from behind a tumbledown wall, his hands stretched out, one of them gripping the obsidian knife. His eyes were blank and staring. A hideous parody of a smile hung on his lips.
Doc was on the far side of the altar, getting ready to cut Henn loose, and was directly in the line of fire, blocking Okie, J.B. and Ryan from shooting down the madman.
"Hit him, Doc," called Ryan.
"Use your cannon," added J.B.
"As I go, surely shall I not go alone," said Herne, drawing nearer to the old-timer. "This sacrifice shall be not maimed nor worthless."
"Do it, now," urged Okie.
"Bust him!" said Ryan quietly.
Like someone waking from a long dream, Doc Tanner began to fumble with the flap of the holster attached to his broad leather belt. But his fingers - were cold, and it seemed to take an eternity.
Herne was so close in line that none of the others could take him out without risking Doc's life. Had the skeletal man been holding a blaster, none of them would have hesitated, even if it meant wiping Doc out at the same time. But a knife was a close-range threat.
The antique Le Mat; was so heavy that Doc nearly dropped it as he clumsily thumbed the hammer back.
Herne was almost on top of him, already raising the gleaming midnight blade just as he had when he'd been about to rip the living heart from Henn's body.
The pistol was adjusted to fire its .63-caliber shotgun round. Holding the pistol in both hands, Doc squeezed the trigger. There was a great burst of powder smoke and a boom like a stun gren exploding, Ryan saw the way that the Le Mat kicked high in the old man's grip, but at that range, with that sort of charge, he really couldn't miss.
The skinny preacher was thrown back by the impact. His black coat disappeared into tatters and rags, and a great fountain of blood sprayed out from him. He landed flat on his back, his knife flying high in the bright morning air. The shot had hit him in the center of the chest, pulping ribs, driving the razored splinters of bone into his heart and lungs, killing him instantly.
Some of his blood splashed onto the broken wall behind him. Ryan looked up at the tortured figure of the Christ on the cross. Its midnight sheen was now dappled with fresh crimson that ran down the anguished face, the thighs, the ankle stumps.
"Got the ace on the fuckin' line with that one, Doc," said Okie, grinning appreciatively.
The old man bolstered the smoking pistol and turned away without saying a word.
Henn was almost gray with exposure, and it took a great blazing fire and much effort to bring some life back into his limbs. The shooting had awakened Finnegan, who came lurching outside just after Doc iced the leader of the crazies. Wiping the sleep from his bleary eyes, he asked, "What the fuck is goin' on?"
Henn eventually recovered, though there were numerous scratches and bites on his body, particularly around his thighs and the lower part of his belly. And his penis was scabbed and bloody from what looked like severe friction burns on it.
As soon as he was coherent and dressed, Ryan ordered everyone back to the buggies, ready to move.
Doc had walked off on his own and returned only now, when he heard the roar of the engines. He looked pale. Ryan took him to one side.
"Yon feelin'…you know, Doc? You did what you had to. That bastard would have opened you from…?"
"Thorax to pubis, Ryan. Yes, I know, but killing does not come easy to me."
"It's a craft you have to learn, Doc. Just like any other."
"Then I confess I will do my best. Ah…"
"What?"
"While walking there alone with my contemplations, I recalled something I had forgotten. I mentioned the word crater brought back memories. I have now managed to remember it."
"Go on."
"Chron-jumps."
"What the…?"
Doc looked around to make sure the others were not within hearing distance. "The gateways. You know they're mat-trans ports. You get in and instantly you're carried somewhere else."
"Yeah. Look, I'm fuckin' freezin' to the bone out here, Doc. Can't we…?"
"It won't take much longer, sir. I said that there had been some dreadful accidents. I didn't tell you because I couldn't remember it, but the gateways have also been used for other experiments. Chron-jumps. Time travel. It does work."
"Never. Come on, Doc. You know you get confused sometimes."
"Most of the time, my dear Mr. Cawdor. But here is a moment of crystal clarity. I know that time travel is a reality—I know better than any living soul, believe me. But they tried other times. Once, and once only it nearly worked."
Either Doc Tanner had completely lost all his creds, or he was telling the truth. Ryan shook his head, resisting the temptation to slap himself to see if he was dreaming all this.
"It is passing strange how I can fail to know even my right hand from my left and still recall some fragments of the past in such clarity. It was the sixth day of August in the year 1930. Seventy-one years before Armageddon. A man of great distinction got into a cab in what was called Manhattan, in old New York. He waved to a friend and disappeared forever."
"What's this got to do with talkin' about volcanoes and craters?"
"Wait. The men who ran the Gateway and the Cerberus projects were evil. Oh, such wickedness and misery! My dear, dear Emily! They were trawling and they picked up this man. I was there when he came through, or when what was left of him came through."
Ryan had enough sense not to interrupt Doc to ask who Emily was. That might have been enough to throw his memory off the subject forever.
"It nearly, so nearly
proved a success. A justice of the supreme court. It would have… I can still see what came."
"Go on, Doc." Behind Ryan, the rest of the group had boarded the ice buggies and were watching curiously from the ob slits.
"A shirt with a high collar. I remember the shoes were very sharply pointed, which was the fashion of the time, and were polished like twin mirrors. The suit was double-breasted, a brown pinstripe. That was the expression, pinstripe. That torn suit—with the label of the tailor still neatly sewn within it."
Doc's voice was becoming quieter. The early sun had long gone and the day was turning colder and bleaker. Gray clouds streaked with a dull purple were gathering over the giant mountain behind them, and already the first flakes of threatening snow were blowing.
Those clothes. And… most of his trousers were missing. All but the lower jaw of the head was gone. That row of white teeth, everything sliced clean as a razor, and very little blood. The right hand was there, perfect, the fingers still curling, but the left was hewn away by some unknown and unimagined power. The voice mewed like a kitten. I think that was the worst of it—that little, little mewing voice. Lord forgive us for what was done in the name of science and progress! Progress! That poor relic of a man, plucked from the past to end… who knows where? Or when?"
"But what's this got to do with craters, Doc? I don't see the connection."
Doc's veiled eyes turned to him, unblinking. "The name of…"
J.B.'s shout interrupted them. "It's droppin' fast, Ryan. If we're goin', we should move. Goin' to be bad weather soon."
"Sure, sure. Go on, Doc."
"For…what? Go on? Ah, I comprehend you, Mr. Cawdor, indeed I do. Go on and get into those infernal internal combustion machines. Of course."
It had gone. The call from the Armorer had been enough to tip Doc's mind back over the edge, from sanity into utter confusion. But even the few coherent sentences that Doc had managed gave Ryan plenty to think about. Time travel! Maybe the gateways could be used for time travel. That was something else.
