Pandora's Redoubt

by James Axler

  The ivy thrashed mindlessly, slicing apart its dead master in bestial frenzy. Leafy tendrils sank deep into the headless corpse, the vines pulsating as they pumped the thin ichor from the dead creature back into its huge trembling corpse.

  Mildred worked the arming bolt on the 75 mm rifle.

  Ryan stopped her. "No need to waste ammo," he said, turning Leviathan around to drive forward again. "That's as dead as anything gets."

  "The bigger they are, the harder they fall," J.B.

  pronounced, wiping sweat off the brow of his fedora.

  "That is the unmitigated truth, my dear John Barrymore," Doc added, wrinkling his nose. The stench coming from the devastation was almost beyond words. Roasting sewage was the closest he could approximate.

  "Goodbye and good riddance," Mildred muttered.

  Reaching the freedom of the streets, Ryan turned in his seat. "Krysty?" he asked softly.

  Squatting in front of the medical locker, the redhead didn't stop tending to the wound in her hand. "Let's get out of this bastard pesthole," she growled.

  Chapter 8

  At an inexorable pace, Leviathan crawled from the furniture store along the main street. Their hearts still pounding, everybody stood post at a blasterport, weapons primed and ready, but nothing barred their path.

  Mildred watched in the mirrors as the leafy building shook once more, then broke into pieces. With the flood of fresh air, flames rose from the tumbling sections, fiying the vines, while the writhing bugs popped into green ichor. A thick plume of smoke rose into the mottled sky, the intense heat of the conflagration causing the classic mushroom shape to form above the city.

  Mildred and Doc were unperturbed by the sight. Both knew any sufficiently hot ground-level combustion yielded a mushroom cloud. The rest of the friends simply scowled at the legendary sign of destruction.

  "Six o'clock," J.B. said, pulling the bolt on his Uzi.

  "What now?" Ryan barked irritably.

  Standing brazenly on the roof of a diner was a young man in leather clothes and an elderly woman in a ragged housedress. Green vines fringed their limbs, and the puppets watched as Leviathan drove

  slowly away.

  "Must be more than one of those things," Ryan

  stated.

  Doc agreed. "Ascertaining if we are truly departing."

  A rifle discharged inside the tank, and Ryan saw Dean standing at a blasterport with his Steyr SSG-70

  "Notch to the left," Ryan suggested. "Adjust for wind."

  Nodding, the boy expertly worked the bolt and shot again. He hit both puppets, the hollowpoint rounds punching neat holes in their faces, but completely removing the back of their skulls. Gushing blood from the titanic wounds, the bodies stiffly turned and walked into the shadows.

  "Waste ammo," Jak said dourly.

  "Removing sentries," J.B. replied. "Protecting our retreat."

  The boy removed the clip from the longblaster and thumbed in fresh cartridges. "That's not why I did it."

  "Yeah, we know," Ryan said, feeling oddly proud of his son. Even though he hated to admit the fact, sometimes in this brutal struggle for life you had to waste a precious bullet just to be able to call yourself a hifman being.

  They turned onto a side street, the center of the road a bare dirt median, dotted with dead trees, and no sign of the ivy anywhere. The buildings were in an advanced state of decay, some only piles of masonry to show where once stood mighty edifices attesting to the power of man over nature.

  "Ah, the suburbs," Doc stated, wiping his sword blade clean. "We can relax, I think."

  His 9 mm Uzi pressed to a cheek, J.B. looked out a blasterport. "I'll relax when this muck-eating rad pit is far behind us."

  "Which way?" Mildred asked, as a swarm of the big black bugs, without any vines attached, scuttled out of a sewer grating and took off to the south. "Never mind, follow them. They should know the shortest rout• out of here."

  "When in doubt," Ryan agreed, "follow the escaping prisoners."

  Unfolding a small plastic sheet, J.B. checked his pocket map. "Nothing much to the south. No more towns worth mentioning, no fiatland for farms."

  Jak cracked open an ammo box and started reloading his revolver. "Bottom land best. Hill for taters."

  J.B. refolded the map. "If you say so."

  "Isn't there a redoubt we've already been to in northern Virginia?" Krysty asked, from the rear of the tank. The redhead was nearly finished getting dressed in a khaki jumpsuit she found in a locker.

  "J.B., how far away is the redoubt?" Ryan asked.

  "King's Bay? Roughly 120 miles."

  "Mildred, can we make it?"

  "I'm not sure," the physician replied, studying a gauge. "Fuel levels are less than half."

  "Anything closer?"

  The map was scrutinized. "Nope."

  "Then it's our best bet." Ryan worked the choke, trying to thin the mixture of fuel and air. "We've been on the run since we got out of that bastard Ohio redoubt. Mebbe we can find some supplies along the way, but we know there's fuel in long storage at Virginia. Then we can rest and decide what to do next."

  "Fine by me," Doc said, accepting his frock coat from Krysty.

  Ryan glanced at Krysty as she took the front seat vacated by Mildred. There was no need for him to ask; he already knew her opinion on the matter.

  "So let's roll," Mildred said, sitting next to J.B. "The sooner we're out of here, the better."

  TWISTING THE GRIPS on the handlebars, Lady Ward Amanda of Novaville Citadel angled her camoupainted BMW motorcycle off the dusty highway and followed the off-ramp to the old rest station. The parking lot was carved out of the side of a low hill, like a slice taken from an apple. The rusted remains of a hundred predark cars and even more trucks of assorted sizes filled the parking lot to overflowing, forming a maze of rotting tires and lopsided chassis and empty windshields. Under a sagging awning of dead fluorescent lights and bird nests, stands of fuel pumps fronted a squat white building whose dirt-smeared windows and dead neon offered cold beer and chili on sale, both reduced to dust long ago.

  As silent as the wind, she rode the huge bike through the labyrinth of wrecks ever mindful of the sharp metal shards that reached out for unwary travelers like thirsty daggers. A single scratch from a rusty nail could kill these days. First every muscle went sore, then your mouth clamped shut, then came the tremors, the sweats and death. She blocked the memory of that terrible day in the Citadel when the healer's axe fell upon her father, the ward himself. The chems did exist, white powders and tiny pills, but they were rare beyond words and fetched the owner's weight in bullets, or a full season of food.

  Stopping the BMW motorcycle near the pumps, Amanda killed the 200 cc engine. The vibration between her thighs ceasing was the only sign the motor had ceased to function. Unlike so many other motorcycles, the BMW wasn't driven by a sprocket and chain assembly, but possessed a multigear transmission like a car. It was as quiet as a whisper, perfect transport for a recce.

  Kicking down the stand, Amanda stepped off and drew her Thompson machine gun from its cradle on the handlebars. The tommy gun was heavy and long, but was chambered in .22-caliber rounds and carried six hundred shots in a massive cheesewheel clip. As a spray-'n'-pray for enemies hidden in the bushes, or for onrushing crowds of muties, it was an excellent weapon. For max penetration, Amanda carried a pristine blue-steel Desert Eagle .50-caliber auto-loader on her hip.

  Releasing the chin strap, Amanda removed her camou helmet and glanced carefully around, searching for any signs others might have been here recently-a cig butt on the ground, the faint smell of gasoline or maryjane in the air, fresh urine stains on the white walls. But the area seemed clear. Good. Not many travelers were aware that a supply of fuel remained in the deep underground tanks. However, the Sons of the Knife did know about it, and this was a major refueling spot for them. The bikers challenged her ville's right to loot the Wheel, and they, too, were on her agenda today.

  Resting
the helmet on the handlebars, Amanda set the alarm, palmed the key into a pocket, then got a siphon hose and a fuel can from her saddlebags. She had plenty, but wanted full tanks for the next leg of her journey. It was only twenty more miles to the Wheel, and there she would try to deal with the driver of the huge tank that protected the ivy-coated city. The massive war machine was often seen traversing the streets of the Wheel in perfect safety. But if anybody dared to enter the city limits, they were never heard from again. Clearly, the tank commander ruthlessly ruled the predark ruins and had no intention of sharing the unimaginable wealth stored in its warehouses and skyscrapers. Her face burned with fury at the thought that her father's leg might have been saved if only her sec men could have reached the medicines in the hospital downtown. With only whiskey mixed with jolt to dull the pain, it was a miracle her father had survived. But that was why she was here. Where commoners failed, the barons had to succeed. She would cut a deal with the driver, marry him if necessary, or die trying to kill him. Whatever happened, the Wheel would belong to Novaville, and then the whole mountain range.

  Unzipping her leather jacket a few inches to ease the stifling heat, Amanda walked slowly, listening to the world around her. Cicadas chirped in the tall weeds, and a stingwing shot through the darkening sky overhead, chasing a smaller bird. Feathers and blood sprayed from the impact as the needle-thin beak of the stingwing stabbed its victim. She smiled. Feasting on a fresh kill, the stingwing wouldn't bother her. In spite of her bravado at court, Amanda didn't want to be outside the ville walls. However, while large groups were always attacked by the Knives, solos often snuck by without hindrance. Alone was her best bet for success.

  Stepping by the pumps, she moved to the white snack bar and found a couple of doors marked for both sexes. She eased open each with the Thompson, and found only autumn-leaves yellow papers and a newly dead squirrel, a prisoner of the inner swing door. Grabbing the rodent by its tail, she stuffed dinner into her pocket and continued with the inspection.

  Inside the building, tables had been piled into a makeshift barricade, bullet holes dotting the Formica surfaces. But there was nobody behind the counter. However, off in the corner she found the remains of a campfire, norm bones mixed with mutie skulls in the cold ashes. The muties had to have chased some norms to this place. The men had staged a last-ditch fight and the stickies got them anyway, afterward eating norm and mutie corpses alike. Amanda spit on the corpses. Norm fools!. She was glad they were dead, and hoped it wasn't quick or painless. Giving muties flame this close to the fuel dump, were they insane?

  The kitchen and freezer were empty, as were the offices and video games room. The squat machines painted with gay colors had died the microsecond electrical power was lost. Satisfied she was alone, the heiress to the Citadel went outside the snack bar and around back.

  Searching the ground, she found faint yellow lines and a blue striped area for some sort of wheeled transport, and beyond that, a couple of flat metal disks set into the concrete on the ground - the access lids for the underground storage tanks. Oddly, all three contained gasoline, and nobody had ever been able to satisfactorily explain why the station would have three different storage tanks for the exact same thing. Safety wasn't an issue, because if one tank detonated, surely the others would ignite also. Fuel was fuel. It didn't come in calibers the way bullets did. What worked in one engine worked in another. The predark world was full of such inexplicable mysteries. Maybe that was why it fell-simple foolishness.

  Kneeling on the asphalt, she tried to unscrew a lid but was unable to make it budge, and the others proved equally resistant. Laying down her gun, she used both hands to strain against the accumulation of rust, almost busting -a knuckle as the lid came free. Sucking on the minor wound, she slid the heavy steel disk aside.

  Inside the round depression was the main feeder pipe, two valves, a button that did nothing these days and the 'vent hole. That was what she wanted. The hole had been plugged with a piece of cork long ago to prevent evaporation and save every drop of the juice. Wiggling out the cork, Amanda dropped in the hose until she heard a splash. Making sure the other end was in the canister before starting, she worked the hand pump in smooth strokes, nice and easy. In a few minutes, the container was full. She neatly returned everything to its original position, awkwardly jockeying the heavy metal lid back into place.

  Capping the canister, she reached for her weapon and a blur struck the Thompson, sending it skittering into the weeds. Spitting a curse, she drew the Eagle and fell backward against the snack bar. That had been an arrow!

  Controlling her breathing, she studied the weeds and wreckage. Nothing was in sight. A sound made her jump, and the woman raced for her bike. Damn her stupidity! Stickies she could handle by the dozen, and stingwings and grumblers were common problems. But an arrow meant people. Could be throwbacks, technophobes, rad worshipers, or worse, the Sons of the Knife. If that rabble got their filthy hands on a lady of the blood, daughter of the ward himself...

  As the blonde turned the corner, a black shape hit her in the face. Amanda had to have blacked out for a second for she awoke lying on the ground, surrounded by them. She screamed, knowing full well that nobody could hear, and the pack was upon her, ripping and tearing like wild animals.

  LEVIATHAN's FIFTEEN wheels hummed steadily as the vehicle rolled along the road. Once past the suburbs, Ryan found a highway in good shape. The concrete was relatively smooth, and there were few potholes. As was to be expected, the road had no signposts, so they could only guess it was the Route 65 on J.B.'s map and hope for the best. Most of the day went by in unaccustomed quiet, as the friends cleaned and reloaded their weapons, then consumed another meal of the starchy MREs.

  "Ryan, need stop," Jak said.

  Taking another swallow of the U.S. Army coffee, Ryan asked, "What for?"

  "Could use a visit to the bushes myself," Mildred admitted.

  "Sure, but wait till we reach a stream," Ryan said, draining the cup. "That way the water will wash away our traces from any predators."

  "Long as it'snot too long," J.B. grumbled, sliding his hat over his face and crossing his arms. Soon, soft snoring sounded.

  "Hey! Check over there!" Krysty cried from the front seat. She pointed to their right. "A highway rest stop."

  "It appears to be in good condition," Doc announced, wiping his chin clean with a moist towelette.

  "And check those trucks!"

  J.B. jerked upright and shoved his fedora into position at the same time. "Trucks?"

  "Dozens of them," Ryan said, placing his tin cup on the dashboard into a small recess that seemed made for the purpose. "Exactly what we need. Leviathan's chassis is built on a civilian truck frame."

  "Even if the transmissions were drained," J.B. said, "a few drops would remain on the gears, and over the years flow to the bottom. We get a couple of spoonfuls from each, and we got us a working tank again."

  "Get hard, people," Ryan said, checking the SIG-Sauer in his belt. "What we've thought of, so will others. This is a natural place for an ambush."

  As weapons were primed, Ryan took the tank out of gear and silently rolled down the gentle incline onto the oil-stained concrete apron, easing the craft to a halt between a couple of tractor trailer combos. The closest was a refrigerator unit, its belly hung with liquid air tanks to chill the cargo. The next was a flatbed fenced with wooden slats.

  "For hauling livestock," Doc stated, opening the cylinder of his .44 LeMat and makng sure the copper nipples for the percussion charges were firmly in place. "There appear to be pig bones in there."

  "I've never seen so many cars and trucks," Dean ventured, his lips moving as he tried to count

  "Might even be gas in the storage tanks," J.B. said, stuffing tools into his clothes. "Dean, check and see if we have a hose to use as a siphon, will you?"

  "Sure," the lad replied, and he was in the center locker rooting about. "Found one!"

  "How long?"

  "Ten, twelve
yards."

  "More than enough."

  "Hilltop is clean," Krysty said, putting aside her binocs. "If there are sentries or snipers, they're too well hidden for me to find."

  "Trucks seem okay," Mildred added, sweeping her vision over the rusting assemblage of vehicles.

  "Lots of rats, some stingwings, but no sign of inhabitants."

  Reluctantly killing the engines, Ryan set the

  brakes and spun his chair. "This bothers me," he said bluntly. " One of the first lessons the Trader ever taught me was, anything that seems too good to be true, is too good to be true."

  "Leave?" Jak asked pointedly. "Or hard and fast?"

  Ryan slung his Steyr over a shoulder. "As if we were under attack. J.B., get the juice and nothing else. No side trips. Our fuel is okay for now. Mildred, help him stay on that goal. Doc and Krysty,

  guard duty. Dean and I will do a fast perimeter recce for any trouble."

  "Hey," Jak drawled. Magnum in hand, he was crouched by the door, his long snowy hair masking his pale features.

  Resting the stock of his Steyr on a hip, Ryan stared at the teenager. "How's the arm?"

  Sheepishly, the teenager flexed his shoulder.

  "Sore," he admitted.

  "That's why you're on sentry duty. Stay inside, no matter what happens out here. You remember the codes?"

  "Yeah," he said and took his position at the driver's seat. "Roger, Adam, Charles."

  "Right. Stay sharp."

  "Codes?" Dean asked, sliding on his bulky vest.

  "When you're on sentry," explained Ryan. "You stay hidden, doors locked. Gives us an edge having a secret member of the group."

  "So if trouble comes," J.B. added, "shoot high and we duck."

  "What if somebody drags one of you over with a knife to the throat and says you're the key?" Dean asked.

  Ryan looked at the boy. "That's where the codes come into use. In a situation like that, we would have more information than the sentry, so he would follow our lead."