by James Axler
“Hit ’em again!” the baron ordered as he advanced closer, firing his handcannon nonstop. His features were illuminated by the crimson light, making the one-armed giant appear to be a war god from predark mythology. Madness filled his eyes, but the blaster boomed in deadly accuracy.
Heartened by the sight of the baron taking the lead, the sec men rallied and double their assault on the burning structure. But then a low groan came from the building as the interior beams started to bend, stretching like warm taffy. The walls cracked, floors broke apart, and the upper levels of the office building collapsed onto the lower stories in a prolonged avalanche of crumbling masonry.
Anguished hooting could be heard from within, but nothing tried to escape, and as the blaze spread throughout the shuddering ruins, the cries slowed until there was only the loud crackling of the rising flames.
BY DAWN, the structure was reduced to a smoldering skeleton of twisted steel beams with a few sections of broken masonry at the cornerstone.
“Well, that should do it,” J.B. declared, sipping a cup of cold coffee sub. With his hat pushed back, a pale streak of clean skin was visible on the Armorer’s forehead. The rest of his face was almost black from the windblown soot.
“Yeah, they’re all chilled,” Ryan said, clumsily holstering the SIG-Sauer with his left hand.
Sitting on the curb across the street from the building, the one-eyed man had stayed through the night to watch the structure burn to the ground, then he and the baron had lead a recce into the cellar to make sure none of the stickies had escaped into the warren of sewers below the predark city. But the manhole covers had been undisturbed. Perhaps the stickies had been afraid to use the sewers because of the gators. Mebbe they didn’t know what the metal disks covered. It didn’t really make a difference. The new breed of stickies was gone, burned out of existence.
“Will you please stop moving?” Mildred ordered irritably, digging her fingers into his arm.
Snorting in reply, Ryan did as requested, coolly watching as the physician finished stitching shut the gash in his right forearm. As Mildred bit off the fishing line, Ryan tried not to grunt from the tug on his raw flesh. Pain was part of life; only the dead didn’t bitch.
“You were lucky,” Mildred said, tucking the supplies into her canvas med kit. “No tendons were damaged and no nerves cut. Rest for a couple of weeks, and you’ll be good as ever.”
“Wish we could say the same for everybody else,” Ryan said, trying to make a fist. His hand was weak, and the sown gash in his arm throbbed painfully at the attempt.
“Lots of folks dead,” Mildred said, forcing herself to stand. “But a lot more saved. Try to remember that.”
Gingerly flexing his fingers, Ryan only grunted in reply.
Without further comment, Mildred turned to walk away, looking for anybody else whose wounds she could mend. A couple of healers from the ville had arrived during the night. But there were a lot more bodies to bury than patients to fix. A lone sec man with a canvas bag was already moving among the corpses, gathering boots and blasters. The grisly work of staying alive.
“Nuke storm of a night, eh, lover?” Krysty asked, squatting on the nearby sidewalk. The MP-5 subgun hung at her side, the weapon dotted with ooze and dried blood. Her clothing was ripped in numerous locations, and her skin showed a lot of bruises, but the gentle waving of her hair told him that the woman was undamaged and healthy.
“Had better,” Ryan stated, placing the aching arm across his lap.
“I guess we took some losses,” Baron O’Connor said, walking closer. The big man was chewing a piece of jerky, the motion making the tattoo on his throat seem to fly. A scattergun was slung across his back to replace the Winchester. “I guess your healer was right. A lot more survived.”
“Depends on whether stickie, or not,” Jak drawled, casually stropping a knife on a piece of whetstone. Satisfied with the result, he tucked the blade up a sleeve of his jacket and pocketed the stone. “Better for us than them.”
“Yeah, don’t think we’ll be troubled much by muties anymore,” Stirling added, his left arm in a sling, the shirt caked with dried blood and crystalline ooze. “Even if some got away, we aced the bulk of them, and there’ll never be another nest like this rad pit again. We know what to look for now.”
“To do is to learn,” Doc agreed in his stentorian voice, watching the clouds move by overhead. The storm hadn’t broken the previous night, but the sky was still overcast. The rain, acid or not, had held off just long enough for the fire to do its job. Every now and then, the scholar almost believed in luck.
There came the sound of hoofbeats, and everybody jerked up their heads, hands going for weps. Then Taylor came into view, riding a chestnut mare. Everybody relaxed and several sec men waved in greeting as the man reined in his mount and walked her over to the baron.
“Trouble?” O’Connor asked, squinting hard. “Is my family safe?”
“Mount up!” Stirling bellowed, pulling a blaster.
Stopping whatever they were doing, the battered sec men grabbed blasters and raced for the Metro.
“No, no! Everything is fine, my lord!” Taylor hastily corrected. “Your kin and the ville are perfectly safe.”
“Then what the frag… At ease!” Stirling shouted. “False alarm!”
Grinding to a ragged halt, the exhausted sec men allowed themselves to slump, and most just sat on the sandy street wherever they stood.
“Then why are you here?” the baron demanded, scrutinizing his troops. The sec men were exhausted, but still willing to charge into battle. That was what came from ruling a ville by laws and not from whim.
“Saw the fighting was over and decided to come over. I was watching the fight through binocs,” Taylor explained, hitching up his gunbelt. “Thought you’d like to know that the ville was hit last night by a dozen stickies armed with torches. Four bunches of three.”
“They came in waves?” Ryan demanded suspiciously.
“Shit yeah. Damnedest thing. One had a torch, and the others carried spears, almost as if they were guards for the first.”
“Combat formation,” Stirling muttered, casting a backward glance at the destroyed nest. Shitfire, the ville was lucky they had managed to nightcreep the muties. This could have been a lot worse.
“Did they try for the armory again?” the baron asked, scratching at the end of his missing arm.
“Yes, they tried. But after the first attack, I had all of the black powder and predark brass moved to the safe room with the baroness. The next three times the nuke-suckers only found barrels of dirt—and us waiting in the shadows.” The scout grinned.
“Excellent news!” the baron boomed, slapping the sec man on the back. “Well done, indeed!”
The man grinned at the pounding. “Thank you, my lord. The way I figure, if they stopped after four tries, that should mean you got them all and can come home again.”
“We were coming back anyway,” Stirling replied gruffly, hawking and turning to spit into the sand. “We’re out of lead, powder, arrows and Molotovs. We’d have to start kicking the muties if we found any more.”
“Got you covered there,” Ryan said, patting the SIG-Sauer at his side.
“Well, you certainly have earned my personal thanks after the fight in the nest,” the baron said. “And what the frag was that thing your man threw? The gren that blew up half the building?”
“Just something I found in a wrecked APC,” the Armorer lied, forcing his hand away from the munitions bag at his side. “Sorry, that was the last one.”
“Damn.”
“Is that what happened?” Taylor asked, sounding impressed. “Some predark mil bomb? Well, shit…” Turning to face the smoky ruins, the scout gave a low whistle. “Blind norad, I’m glad you’re on our side. And triple glad those mercies up north of the Zone didn’t get you.”
“Mercies?” the baron asked.
Just then, the corner of the burned-out building collapsed in a deafenin
g crash, sending out a billowing cloud of soot and burning embers. Armed sec men rushed to the spot to check for stickies, but they found nothing.
“What mercies are you talking about?” Ryan demanded, massaging his forearm.
“Bunch of wild-ass coldhearts running just north of here,” Taylor replied, rubbing his unshaved face to the sound of sandpaper. “That’s what I was starting to say at the Citadel last night. When I was talking to the other villes about the muties, I heard about some cold-hearts going around chilling everybody with one eye.”
Wrapping a bandage around the head of a wounded sec man, Mildred jerked about at the remark. “Everybody?” she demanded, deliberately repeating the word. A feel of cold dread started to fill her stomach.
“Anybody and everybody,” Taylor agreed. “Men, women, children. It’s the damnedest thing.”
Slowly, the baron turned to look at the companions.
Saying nothing, Ryan fumbled with his gunbelt, attempting to buckle it on backward and put the SIG-Sauer on the left side where his undamaged hand could draw the wep.
“Those coldhearts are sending out a message, a blood warning to somebody,” Stirling stated, running stiff fingers through his dirty hair. “Keep out of the Zone, or die.”
A warning? No, it was an invitation, Ryan mentally corrected, tightening the gunbelt into place. And an unmistakable one at that. The only question was, who had sent it? The whitecoats from Operation Chronos? Some old enemy returned for vengeance?
“Tell us more about these strange deaths,” Doc urged. “Tell us everything.”
Just then, a blinding burst of sheet lightning crashed overhead, thunder rumbled and the dark clouds broke, pelting the predark ruins with a cold, hard rain.
The storm had finally arrived.
* * *
Chapter Nineteen
Grunting from the effort, Alan and Robert Rogan swung aside the disguised gate, and a dusty Edward rolled into the woodsy glen on his motorcycle.
Directing the purring machine across the compound, Edward skirted the campfire, circling once around Lily and nearly knocking her into the flames. But the sullen girl concentrated on stirring the taters frying in an iron skillet and gave no reaction to her tormentor. Revving the bike, the laughing man drove away at a slow pace.
Placing the frying pan on a flat rock set near the fire, Lily took a stick with some cloth tied to the end, dipped it into a plastic bucket of honey and shine and swabbed down the sizzling haunch of meat roasting above the flames. Pretending to ride her down was their second favorite game. But after the first few days of being their slave, she really didn’t give a nuking damn about anything that happened anymore. Their brutality was beyond words. Dirty tech lovers. When she was sure her brothers weren’t looking, absolutely sure, the girl would liberally season their food with spit. The coffee was especially good for that.
But not this night, Lily added privately. There was a large bone running through the hindleg of the griz bear, which meant that she might get something to eat after they were done stuffing themselves. Mebbe. Hopefully.
Braking to a halt near the concrete bunker, Edward pushed down the kickstand and climbed off the dirty two-wheeler. Reaching into the saddlebags, the barrel-chested man pulled out a leather eyepatch and a human scalp dripping with long silvery hair.
“Was it them?” John asked, glancing up from his work. The tall man was sitting on a rock covered with the furry hide of a recently chilled bear. On the metal table in front of him was a clean piece of white cloth covered with a disassembled combo rapidfire.
“Nope, another bust,” Edward said.
“Good.” John smiled without warmth, his hands moving with intimate sureness as he lubricated the recoil spring of the rapidfire and slipped it into the housing. “I want to be the one who puts Ryan on the last train west.”
“Not going to happen,” Alan said, puffing on a hand-rolled cig as he walked over. “Unless they’re stupes, these outlanders will run for the end of the world once they hear that the Rogans are hunting them.”
Making a detour past the campfire, Alan slapped Lily on the rear, the blow causing the girl to stumble and almost go into the flames. With a gasp, she drew back and started to turn toward the man with the basting stick brandished in her fist as if it were a hatchet. He grinned at the action, and Lily slumped, turning back to work with an expressionless face. If she only had a knife, or a blaster…!
“Well, bro, Delphi says that once this Ryan hears about what has been happening here in the Zone, the one-eyed bastard is going come after us with every blaster firing. And right behind him will be the real prize. Tanner,” John commented, glancing down the inside of the barrel. “To find Tanner, we hunt Ryan. Easy pie. And so far, Delphi has been right about everything else.”
“Yeah, sure, makes sense,” Alan grudgingly admitted. “But the son of a bitch is sure taking his sweet bloody time getting here!”
“Ain’t nobody in a hurry to get aced.” Edward chuckled, going to the waterfall. Dipping a bucket into the pond, he went back to the bike and started to wipe it down with a cloth. The water flowing off the front fender began to run crimson as the dried blood washed off.
“Food’s ready,” Lily announced, demurely stepping away from the campfire.
The girl stayed out of the way as the four coldhearts gathered around to use their eating knives to slice off thick pieces of the bear, and fill their tin plates with mounds of taters fried in lard, and canned beans.
“Mebbe we need to take the chilling up a notch,” Robert suggested in his horrible voice, using the blade to scoop up the beans dripping with hot fat.
“Whatcha mean?” John asked, biting off a piece of meat. The animal had tried to get into their base through the trees and gotten tangled in the barbed wire. He and his brothers had first cut the tendons so it couldn’t fight, or run away. Then they had skinned the bear alive. Damn, that had been fun, the griz had lasted a hell of a lot longer than any man or mutie.
“How about we don’t just scalp the corpses, anymore,” Robert croaked, taking a sip of the coffee. “We could do worse to them first. A lot worse. You know, to help spread the news around faster.”
“Now, you’re making sense, bro.” Alan grinned, a knife slipping out of his sleeve and into a waiting hand. He turned the blade in the firelight, inspecting the edge. “The bloodier the tale, the more often it gets told.”
“Sound good to me,” Edward agreed, smiling, picking up a sizzling tater with his fingers. He ate it slowly, as if the heat meant nothing. “By the time we’re done with him, the chilling of Ryan will become a nuking legend that folks will tell for years!”
“Forever!” Alan laughed, his insane eyes twinkling at the unspeakable visions of bloody torture.
Raising their tin cups, the Rogan brothers toasted the idea and drank to seal the deal.
“More coffee, bitch,” John said, tossing his empty cup at the girl. “And if you spit in it again, we’ll do you like we did the bear.”
Going deathly pale, Lily rushed to obey.
Grinning at her response, John went back to the meal. Hmm, a spectacular chilling. Something so horrible that the news would spread across the Zone and force Ryan their way. A red night of screaming worse than getting caught by stickies, and even more terrible then being captured alive by cannies. An interesting problem. Could it be done? Then the answer came to him in a flash.
Yeah, John Rogan thought, looking skyward at the merciless sun. That’ll do just fine.
* * *
Chapter Twenty
The rain storm had lasted for days and flooded whole sections of the predark Two-Son ruins. But eventually, the sun came out and for a week slowly baked the landscape dry with unrelenting heat.
“I hate to see you folks go,” Stirling said, frowning as he adjusted the sling supporting his bandaged arm.
Nobody knew what the squat building had been in the predark day, but it was now a horse stable. A row of windows lined the wall, set
just below the ceiling. The glass panes had been carefully removed to use in the greenhouses, the openings giving some much needed ventilation. Adobe brick walls sectioned off the open area into stalls for the horses, and big steel barrels had been cut in two to hold their feed and water. A thick layer of sand covered the floor, and two young boys were sweeping up the manure to be used in the greenhouses. The baron wasted nothing.
“Hate to leave,” Ryan said truthfully, carefully using both hands to tighten the belly strap of his mount. “But we have to find out if these rumors are true.” The chestnut stallion was young and strong, its eyes bright with intelligence. These were the best animals the ville possessed, two of them from the baron’s private stock.
“Could be a trap,” Stirling suggested with a frown.
“If is, bad news for them,” Jak said, climbing into the saddle. The teenager had kept the same mare from before, and the animal moved her neck to brush against the hand of her new master.
“Especially with these,” J.B. said confidently, patting his munitions bag.
Most of the predark grens hauled from the redoubt had been used in the fight with the stickies, so the companions had waited until after the rain to retrieve the rest of the supplies stored in the sewer. Unfortunately, the sewer had flooded and the precious supplies were gone, washed away to someplace downstream.
After some heated discussions, the companions came to a decision, one they had never made before in all of their travels. Over the past week, Ryan and J.B. had shown Baron O’Connor and Sec chief Stirling the secret of making guncotton, a simple explosive that was more powerful than C-4 plas. The stuff was utterly useless for blasters, as it was just too strong. It always blew the gun apart, often chilling the person pulling the trigger.
