Deathlands 075: Shatter Zone

by James Axler

  “This is the Baroness Amelia,” Baron O’Connor said, gesturing with an open hand. “And that is her sister, Catherine. Down there is Steven’s wife Jan, their daughter Simone, and our Brewmaster, Cauldfield.”

  “Brewmaster?” Jak asked, furrowing his brow. “Cook shine for ville?”

  “Shine? Blind norad no.” Cauldfield snorted as if such a task was beneath the dignity of a mutie. “I—”

  The baron loudly cleared his throat.

  “Yes,” Cauldfield recanted quickly. “Yes, indeed, I make shine for the ville lanterns.”

  Mutie shit. He cooked the fuel for the war wag and Molotovs, Ryan translated privately. He’d known it wasn’t alcohol, or gas, or condensed fuel, but other than that he hadn’t been able to identify the oily substance. Mebbe some sort of chem mix?

  As greetings were exchanged, the companions took chairs and got comfortable. That was when they noticed a huge flag on the wall behind the baron’s ornate wooden chair. The flag was made of red and white stripes, with a screaming eagle replacing the usual array of white stars on the field of blue.

  “The family crest,” the baron said proudly, observing their shift of attention. “It has never seen defeat.”

  “Nor will it ever,” Catherine added haughtily, touching her riot of blond curls. The busty woman was wearing a predark dress that had been altered to show additional cleavage. The satin was cut almost down to the point of exposing herself like a gaudy slut. There were two handcannons in the gunbelt hanging from her chair, and when she bent forward a small blue tattoo could almost be seen hidden between her ample breasts.

  Since neither statement seemed to need a reply, the companions didn’t make one, and set about hanging their gunbelts over the backs of their chairs the way everybody else had done. Armed, but polite. The baron ran a tight ville.

  A few moments later, a servant wearing welding gloves brought out a simmering iron pot and carefully ladled stew into stone bowls. Pitchers of frothy beer and carafes of water were placed around the table, along with wooden plates stacked with loaves of fresh bread hot from the oven. Then came a platter of small roasted birds, dozens of them all stacked on top of one another: crows, hawks, wrens, and what seemed to be an owl, although it did have four sets of wings. The smell was delicious, and everybody dug in with gusto. After living off MRE packs for the past week, the heady aroma of fresh-cooked meat was intoxicating to the companions.

  “This is a very impressive home,” J.B. said, removing his fedora and hanging it on the arm of his chair.

  “Thank you,” Amelia said woodenly. The slim woman picked at the food on her plate and kept shooting hostile glances at her husband.

  “By the way, my dear,” the baron said, pulling out a belt knife to hack a wren in two. “This is the healer who saved our son.” Then he stabbed the bird with the blade and started eating it right off the bare steel.

  Obviously startled, Amelia looked at Mildred and forced a polite smile. “For that service, I thank you,” she said wearily. “Daniel is my only child.”

  “So I heard,” Mildred answered, taking some bread. “And I can teach your other healers how to do the operation. It’s not that difficult.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have been paid so much,” Catherine retorted, attacking a robin as if it were a charging stickie. “But then, a deal is a deal, as the sec men say. I’m sure you are very clever for a rist.”

  Dropping her fork with a clatter, Mildred hunched her shoulders at the insult and looked as if she was about to spring on the busty woman when J.B. laid a hand on her thigh under the table and pushed the physician back down into her chair.

  “I also have only one child,” Catherine continued, muttering under her breath.

  Laying down his bare knife, the baron kept his face impassive as he used his good hand to pour a round of beer for everybody at the head of the table.

  Gaia, so that was what was wrong with the sister! Krysty suddenly realized. They’re worried about Davies. Rad blasting hell, if the feeb got aced, things could get ugly around here. There was nothing worse than a civil war.

  “Hell of a war wag, too,” Ryan said, using the panga to cut the heel off a loaf. A change of topic was clearly in order fast. When his own family members clashed, it often ended in a chilling. “It’s one of the biggest I have ever seen.”

  “Bet your ass it is.” Stirling chuckled, spooning some soup.

  “My grandie found it in the ruins, and my father got it running,” O’Connor added, spearing a hawk with the knife. He dipped it into the soup and started chewing on the wings.

  “Took him years,” the baron said with a full mouth. “Years! But it’s the best wep we have against the stickies.”

  “Now about that,” Ryan started when the door slammed open and a panting sec man rushed into the dining hall.

  Laying down their knives and forks, Amelia and Catherine watched the man as if he were a messenger from the gods.

  “My lord,” the man gasped, clearly out of breath. “Your…your nephew lives.”

  There was an audible sigh from the people at the table, and even the companions relaxed slightly.

  “Told you he was too stupe to buy the farm,” Simone said, facing her bowl of stew.

  “Hush, child,” Jan ordered softly.

  “Was it an old whip?” Mildred asked unexpectedly.

  The baron raised an eyebrow at the strange remark.

  “And what possible difference could that make?” Catherine snapped irritably.

  “Yes, it was an old whip. Why?” Stirling asked, leaning forward. Was she asking it if was used and soft, and that he had disobeyed the baron by being gentle with the fool?

  “A new one would have been better,” Mildred said thoughtfully, stirring the stew with a spoon to check for anything unhealthy in the depths. But she could only find meat and vegetables. “Somebody should wash his cuts with shine and water. Boil the water first, let it cool and then mix the two half and half.”

  “They have already poured a bottle down his throat,” Baron O’Connor stated. “To help kill the pain.”

  Going pale, Catherine stiffened at the word and muttered something too low for anybody to hear.

  “That’s good,” Mildred replied. “Now put the rest on the outside, and he won’t get an infection.”

  “Shine stops infections?” Amelia asked, her voice rising in shock.

  “Nonsense,” Cauldfield stated. “Never heard of such a thing. Ridiculous!”

  “You don’t know everything,” Mildred countered tolerantly. “And yes, shine helps a lot. Not with everything, but with most infectious diseases.”

  “What about the Black Cough?” Jan asked urgently.

  Sadly, Mildred shook her head. “Nothing stops that but death.”

  With that pronouncement, all conversation stopped for a while as folks concentrated on their meal. Doc looked around hopefully for a salt shaker at one point, but didn’t see one. There were several in the MREs in his frock coat, but to display such wealth would invite a barrage of questions the companions didn’t want to answer.

  When the soup was gone, the old servant took away the dirty dishes, and a young girl came in carrying a massive plank stacked with more tiny birds artfully arranged around a large poached lizard, the dead white eyes staring out above the lolling tongue.

  “More meat, sir?” a serving girl asked in a husky voice, leaning close to Jak.

  The teenager’s jacket was draped over the back of the chair, so he could feel the delicious weight of her breasts pressing warm against his shirt.

  “Ask you the same,” Jak said with a smile, taking an eyeball.

  Laying down the new platter, the servant moved against the teenager a little harder. Jak pressed back, and she bumped him with a hip and went on to serve the other guests in a less intimate fashion.

  “Veni, vidi, vici,” Doc muttered, raising his mug in salute.

  Popping the orb into his mouth, Jak scowled at that in puzzlement as he
chewed the delicacy. It was good and salty.

  “I came, I saw, I conquered,” Mildred said, translating the Latin. “That means the old coot thinks she likes you.”

  “Just new flavor, is all,” Jak replied with a shrug. Lots of women were interested in the albino once they understood he wasn’t a mutie. Afterward, they always seemed a little disappointed that he wasn’t strangely built, or anything like that.

  “So you’re not going to…” J.B. didn’t finish the sentence.

  Across the table, the girl slapped the hand of Cauldfield from about her waist. Then she looked directly at Jak and beamed a smile. Frowning darkly, Cauldfield took the lizard’s other eye and chewed it with a suppressed fury.

  “Sure. Dinner first,” Jak said wisely. “Need strength.”

  “So what were you saying about the stickies?” Stirling asked, breaking some bread and mopping up the grease on his plate. “Aren’t they the same where you folks come from?”

  “Stickies are stickies,” Cauldfield said as if it were a law of the universe.

  “The same? Dark night, no,” J.B. replied with feeling. “Our stickies are dumber than a sack of rocks. We almost crapped at the sight of stickies armed with spears.”

  “Really?” Amelia asked, her demeanor cracking slightly with the disclosure.

  “These stickies are abominations!” Doc added passionately, dunking a slice of bread into his beer and waiting for it to soften. Two-Son ville had wheat, but their millstone had to have been a couple of house bricks rubbed against each other, because the bread could have been used to patch tank armor.

  “No other stickies we know about are like these,” Mildred translated, shooting the Vermont scholar a stern glance.

  “Lucky us,” the baron said in a mocking tone. “So only ours are smart?”

  “Mebbe some other ville will wanna swap,” Stirling said with a hard grin. “Trade ’em two for three.”

  Everybody laughed a little at that, but it faded away and everyone returned to the meal with dour faces.

  Draining his mug, Ryan looked over the assembled people. The earlier mood was fading. These people paid a high price for their lifestyle. Mebbe too high a price.

  Overhead, the storm clouds rumbled and boomed, but no rain was hitting the glass skylight yet.

  “Anybody here a hunter?” Ryan asked, refilling his mug from the pitcher.

  “What the hell has that got to do with stickies?” Catherine demanded, nearly showing her tattoo.

  “No, we’re not,” the baron replied. “We fish in the river north of here, raise veggies and catch a few lizards and birds when we get lucky. There’s really not much else around here to track down and hunt.”

  “Too many stickies!” Cauldfield snorted, ripping off a wing and chewing it savagely. “Anything large enough to be worth hunting has already been eaten by the muties!”

  “Oh, I see,” Stirling said slowly, laying down his knife. “Yeah, of course. That’s triple smart. Hunters, eh?”

  Sipping his beer, Ryan nodded. “That’s right. You’re handling the stickies like they were coldhearts, not as if they were animals. Mebbe they got weps now, but they’re still just dumb animals.”

  “Why do you mean?” Jan asked, clearly puzzled.

  “You don’t chase a rabbit,” Ryan explained. “That’s the stupe way. You lay a trap and make it come to you.”

  Just then, the door swung open and a man strode into the room, every step releasing a small cloud of dust from his clothing.

  “Sorry, I’m late, my lord,” he said, the spurs on his boots jingling. “But I ran into some stickies upriver and had to jump a ravine to escape.”

  “Just glad you’re alive, Taylor,” the baron said, gesturing at an empty chair. “Stickies is what we’re talking about. Have a drink! Looks like you need one.”

  “Thank you, my lord, I do,” Taylor said, dropping into a chair and making it creak dangerously. Grabbing the pitcher, he poured a beer and drained the mug in a single draft, then poured another, letting the foam slosh onto the white linen.

  “Taylor, these are some friends who I hope are going to help us with the stickies,” the baron said, pointing with his knife. “And this is Asaro Taylor, our top scout. Rides the desert to watch for caravans, traders, slavers, and such, to warn them about the muties.”

  “Takes messages to other villes, too,” Stirling added, pushing away his plate. “We’ve been trying to build an army to go after the muties, but nobody else is interested in our problems. Just their own.”

  “Which is as it should be,” Cauldfield stated forcibly, pouring some water into his beer and taking a sip. Bah, still terrible. “Each ville should stand alone! That’s how it has always been, and always will be.”

  “I disagree,” Taylor stated, then paused to stare at Ryan.

  The one-eyed man returned the gaze. “Yeah?”

  “Son of a bitch,” Taylor muttered softly.

  “Problem?” Ryan asked, dropping a hand to the panga on his belt.

  “You’re from the south,” Taylor said, as if the fact could not be disputed.

  That brought all of the companions alert. As far as they could tell, Blaster Base One was to the south, but how could this scout possibly have known that?

  “Actually, sir, we are from the east,” Doc lied, chewing a small piece of the tough bread, his face the picture of innocence. “A delightful meal, Baroness O’Connor.”

  “Well, you can’t be from the north,” Taylor said, setting down his empty mug. “That’s for triple damn sure. No way.”

  “And why is that?” Mildred asked in forced casualness.

  Inhaling sharply, Krysty sat bolt upright in the chair, her animated hair starting to wildly move and flex as if a window had been thrown open.

  Catching the motion, Ryan quickly set down his mug. The woman’s mental powers didn’t always work, but when she did something like that, all nuking hell was about to break loose.

  “What unusual hair,” Catherine murmured, closing her eyes to mere slits. “Is there a breeze blowing only on her or…”

  Any further questions were interrupted by a muffled clang coming from the roof directly above.

  “What is?” Jak demanded, pushing away his plate.

  “The alarm bell!” Stirling cursed, shoving back his chair and grabbing his gunbelt. “The ville is under attack!”

  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lifting his head toward the stars, a child baron looked into the infinite blackness of the universe with knowing eyes.

  “They’re coming,” Baron Harmond said, hugging himself with thin arms. “By the blood of my fathers, I can almost see them moving through the night….” Reaching out, the boy flexed his fingers in the chill air, trying to touch the intangible.

  A dozen people stood on the roof of the baron’s house, a predark bank converted into a formidable fortress. The walls were draped with sand bags, the windows covered by wooden shutters and iron bars. A high defensive wall of adobe brick studded with glass surrounded the desert ville, and armed sec men walked along the wide top, always on patrol against muties and coldhearts. Down among the many homes, cooking fires made the curtained windows glow warmly red, and there was a rich smell in the air of frying fish, sassafras tea and baked taters.

  Standing close to the small boy, the adults waited patiently to hear more. At first, many of the people had resisted having a mutie as a baron. But soon the obvious military advantages of having a doomie plan out the defenses against an enemy that hadn’t even arrived yet was clear to all. The young baron would have them digging new wells before the old ones went dry, and warned of acid rain storms days early. The isolated ville still existed only because of his advance warnings, which always came true. The sec men would die at his command, and the civies all but worshiped the child as a god.

  “And what should we do about that, my lord?” a fat sec man asked urgently, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. There was something in the air;
everyone could feel it. The cropland and hills outside the ville were too quiet this night. There didn’t seem to be anything else alive in the world except the tiny ville. Only the western Mohawk Mountains seemed normal, the jagged peaks framed by the rolling banks of fiery clouds that blanketed them every night.

  “Frag that drek. What direction are they?” Chief Bateman countered, resting a hand on the grip of the wep at his side. A double-barrel scattergun had been cut down to just large enough to fit into a holster. The sec chief carried it instead of a handcannon, and the notches on the wooden grip weren’t decorations, but the tally of the chills he had made with the blaster.

  Unable to put the feeling into words, Baron Harmond turned to face the southeast section of the Zone. The one-eyed man and the timewalker, they were in that direction, with two brothers, no, two sons? But that made no sense. The doomie baron shook his head, trying to dispel the confusion. Everything was in flux. It was always difficult to clear-see into the future, but now it was pure chaos, as if the universe were unraveling. Had time come undone? Was the casement of reality cracked apart? Could this be the Second Apocalypse?

  “Sir?” Chief Bateman asked nervously, stepping closer.

  Breathing deeply, the baron turned away from the south and scowled at the north.

  “They’re coming,” the doomie repeated softly. “Four norms on coal black steeds. One is tall, one cannot speak well, one is large as a bear, and the last carries death in his sleeves. They had different fathers, but consider themselves blood brothers.”

  “I’ll sound the alarm,” the fat sec man suggested, edging for the gate. “Charlie! Hey, Charlie!”

  “Do nothing!” Harmond order brusquely. “There is nothing that we can do.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “At least, there is nothing we can do at the moment.” But soon, oh so very soon…

  Shivering from the icy thoughts forming in his mind, the baron turned away from the blood-soaked desert—was it blood soaked or was that another hallucination?—and started toward the wooden flight of rusty iron steps that led down the side of the predark bank. Death was coming from the north and the south. This was where the future would be forged anew. Many would be chilled; he could see it, almost hear the screams. But afterward, the world would be forever altered.