by James Axler
Waiting for any movement from the wag, Ryan relaxed a bit when nothing happened, then kicked off the latch. As the hatch swung free, loose items began to rain out, clattering down onto what sounded like bare stones, but then there came a couple of watery splashes.
“Here,” Doc said, holding out his ebony stick.
Accepting the sheathed sword, Ryan wedged it into place as a prop to hold the hatch open, and shook the stick a few times to make sure the lid wouldn’t slam back down onto somebody’s hand or head. That much steel would remove fingers faster than an angry baron.
“Aw, mutie shit,” J.B. cursed in the red light of the two hissing butane lighters. “The nuke lamp is dead.”
“All three of them?” Ryan demanded irritably, shifting his balance as the LAV changed position slightly.
“Just a minute.”
But it was a lot quicker than that when a searing beam of electric brilliance split the darkness. Temporarily blinded, the companions cried out in pained response and covered their eyes. The interior of the war wag was now illuminated brighter than daylight as the white beam reflected off the sea-foam-green ceiling and walls in a crazy quilt pattern.
“Sure wish I had a rheostat for this baby,” J.B. said, turning the column of light to shine on the nonreflective surface of a canvas duffel bag. “Be nice to dial up the level of light wanted.”
“Better if ground not collapse,” Jak said gruffly, adjusting the bloody bandage tied around his head. “Wish that, instead.”
“Yeah, yeah. Look, you gonna die, or what?”
“Not today.”
“Good. Then lend a hand moving some of this stuff.”
Straddling the open doorway, Ryan raised a hand to shield his eye from the glare of the nuke lamp as J.B. moved the beam across the wag to finally angle it downward. In the shockingly white beam, Ryan could finally see what was below them. Stones and dirt, the dank earth dotted with canteens and ammo boxes. The splashing sound was louder now, but nothing was in sight. Was the noise another echo? He knew that sounds did strange things under the ground.
Bracing himself, the big man stepped off the wag and fell the few feet to the ground. He landed on the balls of his feet in a crouch, instinctively braced for the soil to give away again and start another slide. But the ground held, and Ryan slowly stood to pull the SIG-Sauer from its holster.
Looking carefully around, Ryan observed that the LAV was resting inside a pile of dirt on a ledge next to a rushing river that disappeared into darkness. That was when he noticed droplets sprinkling from above like a gentle rain.
Advancing warily to the rim of the ledge, Ryan saw smashed bricks and pieces of broken concrete mixed among the stones. When the tunnel collapsed, the debris filled in the hole made by the cave-in, landslide, whatever you call it. Great. There was no telling how deep they were, and there was no nuking way they were going to be able to dig through that mess without bringing down the rest of the cavern.
“We landed on a rock shelf in a river chasm,” Ryan announced, holstering the blaster. “Doesn’t seem very stable.”
“An underground river?” Mildred shouted back.
“Looks like, yeah.”
Just then a bedroll came tumbling out of the tilted wag, followed by a fedora and an MP-5 rapidfire. The blaster hit a stone, making a metallic clatter, the sound repeating off the rocky passageway of the river for a very long time. A boot dangled from the bottom of the war wag, and then J.B. hit the ground.
“Okay, lower away,” the Armorer said, looking upward.
There came some mutterings from inside the LAV, then the nuke lamp began to descend as if by magic. It was only when the device got close that Ryan could see the length of rope tied around the handle.
As the lamp slowly rotated on the end of the rope, the white beam swept through the darkness, clearly showing the details of the ledge and the river chasm.
“The water must have undercut the exit tunnel of the redoubt,” J.B. said, going to the edge of the shelf. In the light of the nuke lamp, the two men could spot stalagmites and stalactites in the passageway.
“This has been here for years, decades,” Ryan reluctantly agreed, adjusting the patch over the ruin of his left eye.
“Mebbe this was the home of the guardian,” J.B. said as a question.
Ryan shrugged. But then he tensed as a rat swam by, and he drew his blaster once more. Working the arming bolt, J.B. swung around his Uzi and together they tracked its passage until the animal was gone. No sense wasting ammo just because they had extra. That was feeb thinking.
“That wasn’t an albino,” Ryan said, thoughtfully chewing a lip. “So there must be some kind of avenue to the surface.”
Starting to reply, J.B. broke into a grin and grabbed his fedora off the ground. “Rats are a lot smaller than us,” he reminded his friend, beating the hat against a leg to get it clean. “There might just be a crack, or old predark pipes.”
“Then we dig,” Ryan stated. “Or swim.”
J.B. put the fedora back into place, saying, “Digging sounds good to me.”
With a dull thud, the heavy nuke lamp landed.
Taking out the panga again, Ryan cut the device free and shone the beam about for a recce. The landslide was extensive, stretching for hundreds of feet in both direction of the riverway. Wetting a finger, Ryan raised it, but couldn’t feel any passage of air. They might be in a closed chasm, the air trapped here since before skydark.
“Ace those lighters!” Ryan snapped. “No more flames until we’re sure of the air supply.”
Even as the two flames disappeared inside the war wag, something large dropped through the hatch to land next to Ryan.
Uncoiling like a jungle cat, Krysty slowly stood, her hands moving clumsily along the new rapidfire.
“Hey, lover.” She smiled, then scrunched her face, puckered and spit to the side. A bloody tooth hit the ground. Gaia! Well, at least she didn’t have to wait for the pliers anymore.
“You okay?” Ryan asked, glancing at the object on the dirt.
“Much better, actually,” Krysty replied, wiping some blood off her full lips.
Walking closer to the vehicle, the woman checked the sides of the wag, then underneath. “Any hope of getting this free?” she asked, massaging her cheek to ease the discomfort. The pain was already fading.
“No way we’re getting this bastard loose,” J.B. said unhappily, pointing into the shadows. “See there? The transmission is busted apart, three of the axles are broken, all four of the tires on the right side are flat…” He grimaced. “Good thing the wag is armored top and bottom against landmines. That was what saved our asses.”
“If indeed, we are saved, old friend,” Doc rumbled from above. There came a rustle of cloth from inside the wag and a backpack landed with a thump.
Setting the nuke lamp a safe distance from the edge of the ledge, Ryan and the others started ferrying the backpacks and assorted boxes away from the LAV, food packs, ammo boxes, other supplies. During the process, Krysty started taking small sips from her canteen at regular intervals, and spitting red-tinted water into the river. After about a hour, she stopped doing it and began to hesitantly smile again.
“Can’t see a thing, dear lady,” Doc rumbled politely, hauling a rolled-up tent to the side pile.
Straightening her back, Krysty grinned. “It was a back molar,” she explained. “But thanks.”
“No hard foods for a few days,” Mildred advised, setting down a metal box full of C-4 blocks. “And add a little salt to the water you’re using to rinse with until the bleeding stops.”
“It has stopped,” Krysty said, using a finger to pull back her cheek and expose the rear row of teeth. “The hole is already closed. See?”
“Well, so it has,” Mildred observed, sounding impressed. Damn, Krysty healed fast! “Just lay off the beef jerky for a while to play it safe. Okay?”
“Sure. No prob.”
In short order, the LAV was empty, and the others
descended. Obviously woozy from his head injury, Jak needed a little help from Mildred, and he gratefully sat once they reached the shelf.
“River,” the teenager said, tilting his head. “Mighty close. Any gators?”
“Just a rat so far,” Ryan answered.
Frowning, Jak pulled his Colt and checked the weapon. “Good,” he said softly, but kept the wep in his hand.
In the harsh beam of the nuke lamp, the companions took stock of their supplies. There was plenty of food and water, and enough blasters and brass to take down a baron. In fact, there was way too much for them to carry, even though a lot of things had been smashed in the landslide. Several cans of fuel had jarred open, the ground directly below the LAV soaked dark with the explosive fluid. Ryan scowled at the sight. The damn stuff didn’t evaporate so there was almost no smell. If they had jumped from the LAV with a lighter going, the whole ledge might have gone up, the flames rising directly into the wag like a chimney. He tried not to shiver. They would have been fried alive, with nowhere to run. That was close. Too damn close.
An entire box of MREs was found soaked in the river, the envelopes intact, and floating downriver out of reach like fat silver islands. Two bedrolls were missing, and a couple of the spare bolt-action BAR longblasters were damaged, their barrels bent out of alignment where something heavy had slammed onto them. The curve wasn’t much, but the longblasters were rendered completely useless.
“Save the brass,” Ryan advised sagely. He darted forward and stood with the Steyr longblaster in his hands. He gave the weapon a cursory inspection, then grudgingly slung it over a shoulder. It seemed okay. But it would be wise to depend on the 9 mm SIG-Sauer until he was able to field strip the Steyr to make sure it was undamaged. There were a lot of ways to leave this world, and the dumbest was to get blown open by your own wep because the barrel was clogged with dirt.
“What do we do now, my dear Ryan?” Doc asked, tucking his ebony stick into his belt like a Medieval sword.
“We have to travel by the river,” Ryan said slowly, brushing back his filthy hair. “There’s no other path.”
“We can make a raft from the remaining four tires,” J.B. stated. “Did it before that time in the Darks.”
“Had wood then,” Jak countered.
“So we make do. You wanna swim?”
The teenager looked at the murky river a few yards below them. The surface was stained with swirling colors from the spilled fuel, and jagged rocks rose from the water like the teeth of a submerged beast. “Shit no,” he stated simply.
“I just hope this leads to the surface and doesn’t go deeper underground,” Mildred said with a worried tone. “I want to be buried after I die, not vice versa.”
Sorting out the items needed, the companions got to work. Getting the tires loose required some serious digging, but eventually the task was accomplished. J.B. and Jak used most of the nylon rope to lash the tires together as strongly as possible, with Doc adding the empty fuel cans underneath for a little extra buoyancy. A sheet of canvas was stretched over the collection and a camou net was cut into squares to hold down their supplies.
Opening a few MRE packs, the companions had a fast meal and made some hard decisions. They took most of the ammo that fit their blasters, one canteen of water each, six MREs each, and all of the grens they could carry.
“What do we do with the rest?” Krysty asked, nudging a pile of Claymore mines and two rocket launchers. Those had been the prize of the redoubt. Any baron alive would trade everything he owned for just one of the launchers.
“Leave it all,” Ryan said, shifting his backpack.
Lashing the netting around the loose items, they tied the piles to the raft, trying to balance it by sheer guesswork. Stopping for a brief break, the companions then lashed the raft to the front winch. J.B. wired a nuke lamp to the electric motor, then lowered the raft over the side of the ledge and into the river. It landed with a splash, and bobbed around for a few moments before leveling out.
Knotting an extra rope at his waist, Ryan rappelled to the raft, then released the knot so that the nylon length could be drawn up again. By the time Krysty descended, he was already lashed to a pile of supplies with a piece of seat belt. While Krysty did the same, J.B. joined them with the rebuilt nuke lamp, and soon everybody was on board.
“Hate to see go,” Jak said, rubbing the bandage on his head.
“Just another wag,” J.B. countered, folding his hat and tucking it away inside his leather jacket for safekeeping.
“Meant the redoubt, Blaster Base One.” Jak snorted, looking upward at the roof of the underground passageway. In his imagination, he saw through the umpteen tons of rock and steel separating them from the treasures of the redoubt.
“Say again?” Mildred asked with a frown.
Jak shrugged. “Thinking we make that home. Every ville needs name, so call Blaster Base One.”
“Sure as hell had enough weps and brass to earn the title,” J.B. said in tired amusement. Then he stopped talking as something lashed about just below the mottled surface of the river. When the motion stopped, there was only the fading contrail of a snake or eel. Or a lot of worms. There was no sign of the rat from before, but its absence did nothing to brighten his mood.
“Stay sharp,” J.B. said in warning, resting a hand on his Uzi machine pistol. “We may have company.”
“Gator?” Jak asked, pulling his blaster.
“You tell me.”
The teen grunted in reply.
“Glad we have the raft,” Krysty muttered, her hair tightening protectively around her face as she tightened the rope about her middle.
“Indeed, dear lady, I have smelled worse,” Doc said, wrinkling his nose. “But not by much.”
“Never been to Atlantic City, have you?” Mildred chuckled, then froze at the faint sound of something rustling in the darkness.
“Is the LAV sliding loose?” Krysty asked in a worried tone, lifting the nuke lamp to play the beam around. Only small pieces of the LAV were visible from this angle, but the pieces of the shattered windshield reflected the light like a million tiny stars.
No, wait a second, those weren’t pieces of glass, but eyes! Ryan realized.
“Rats!” the one-eyed man cursed, drawing his blaster to start shooting at the vermin. A furry body exploded after being struck by the 9 mm Parabellum round, but the rest of the horde poured over the edge and down the embankment, streaming for the bobbing raft and its occupants.
* * *
Chapter Ten
High in the sky, the vulture circled the corpse lying sprawled on the desert ground. Distant thunder rumbled in the fiery orange clouds above as the winged predator came closer and closer to the mound of decaying flesh. Always watchful of potential enemies, the bird looked at the rocks and cactus near the food, but saw nothing unusual. The area was clear. It could freely claim the prize. The food was there for the taking!
Swooping sharply, the vulture landed on the pile of skin and organs, and plunged in its beak to tear loose a stinking gobbet of organ meat.
Deadly silent, the wave of stickies rose from the loose sand and swarmed over the startled bird to lash out with their disfigured hands. Suckers ripped off its wings and the vulture shrieked in agony, blood pumping from the ghastly wounds. Then a tall stickie bit completely through the bird’s feathered neck, crimson spurting from the ragged stump. Its inhuman face smeared with gore, the triumphant stickie stumbled away with the morsel of living flesh. The eyes of the tormented bird rolled in unimaginable pain as the rest of the stickies grabbed hold of its body and tore off gobbets of flesh. The chunks adhering to the sucker-covered hands as if welded into place. The vulture called out once in unimaginable agony, then death came quickly.
Lumbering forward, the largest stickie beat the others away, then spread the least tasty of the organs around the area, trying clumsily to make the mound of assorted parts vaguely look like a single animal once more. The chief stickie started to leave, when
a thought rose from deep within its primitive mind. The misshapen humanoid paused, unsure of what to do, afraid and confused. Then it hesitantly returned to the artificial corpse and took a handful of loose feathers. Slowly, the stickie started to walk around the pile of flesh, wiping away the footprints of the family. When finished, it realized in shock that its own footprints were visible. Turning clumsily, it started to walk backward to erase all traces of the feeding.
Retreating into the rocks, the stickie cast away the gory feathers and curled itself into a ball, trying to go as small and still as possible. It felt a sort of electric tingle in its chest, very similar to the rush of pleasure it received while mating. More food would come. If the family left just a little bit of chewy food out, the winged things would descended from the sky to eat, and the family would have tender food again and again. Leave a little, get more. A cycle of food. Endless food. Full bellies! The babies wouldn’t cry, the females would no longer be sickly, and the young males would grow tall and strong, layers of thick muscles covering their normal skinny bodies. But no male was larger than him! He got all of the females first, and killed without pause any male that dared to challenge his rule!
With a start, the chief stickie became alert. There was an odd noise. Not the wind, nor the rain, or anything else it knew. A sort of hum like a bee. It was…pleasant, compelling, like the siren song of the hot wind, the fiery hot wind that tore things apart. The hot wind always meant fresh meat on the ground. Most blessed was the loud hot wind, the red dancer that gave of food!
SITTING INSIDE HIS mobile command post, Delphi watched as the ragged bunch of stickies shuffled out of the rocks and started hesitantly toward his vehicle.
Rising from the chair, he reached up to take a small rectangular box from a clip on the ceiling where it had been recharging, then strode quickly to the armored door. The portal cycled open at his approach, then closed as he stepped through.
