Shadow Fortress

by James Axler

  Dodging incoming lead, Doc abandoned killing strikes and stabbed his sword stick among the sec men, wounding as many as possible. A shot was fired that tugged on his coat, death avoided only because he was constantly in motion. But he had expected as much. Black powder was rare and valuable in these islands, which meant that target practice was virtually nil, and thus not many were marksmen with a blaster.

  Reaching the throne, Ryan grabbed the twin Webley .44 revolvers from the retching baron and blasted a path to the weapons table. But a dying man bumped into it, knocking the backpacks and weapons everywhere. Tossing away the spent revolvers, Ryan grabbed the first thing in sight and turned to fire the Uzi at an onrushing guard. He was gambling all of their lives on the belief that the sailors might have pulled the clip, but wouldn’t think of working the bolt to eject the round in the chamber. The Uzi roared, and the shrieking man clutched his ruined face, eyes and teeth flowing between his blood-smeared fingers.

  Spinning away, Ryan dodged a thrown knife and grabbed a clip for the rapidfire. Slamming it in, he jerked the bolt and cut loose, the stuttering machine pistol spraying copper-jacketed 9 mm rounds into the startled sailors. A round hit the table alongside him, spraying out splinters, and he winced as several stabbed into his bruised leg. Those damn rocks had done more damage than he first thought.

  Ignoring the minor pain, Ryan thumbed the selector switch to auto and rode the rapidfire into tight groupings, the barrage of hot lead knocking down the sailors. The bolt kicked back when the clip was spent, and Ryan went around the table to grab the LeMat. Remembering Doc’s lectures on the oddball blaster, he clicked back the hammer before pulling the trigger and unleashed thunder, the last sailor slammed off the floor as he rushed up the aisle for the exit. The slug hit him in the back, blood splashing onto the wood in front. But incredibly, the sailor still fumbled with the latch. Holding down the trigger, Ryan fanned the hammer and put a barrage of miniballs into the man before he finally surrendered and slid to the floor in a crumbled heap.

  “Tough son of a bitch,” Ryan growled, tossing Doc the LeMat and taking the Steyr and SIG-Sauer.

  “Good work, Doc,” J.B. said as the old man cut away his ropes.

  “Violence is the last resort of the thinking man,” Doc said in a singsong manner that meant he was quoting somebody. “But only a fool refuses to face the fact when it becomes the option for life.”

  Dean limped to the table. Ryan cut the boy’s ropes, he briefly inspected his face, which was already turning purple, but it was only a bruise.

  “You okay?” Ryan asked.

  “Been better,” he mumbled through puffy lips. “Give me a blaster.”

  Just then the doors slammed open and guards rushed into the throne room, waving blasters. Taking cover behind the rows of chairs, J.B. mowed them down with the Thompson. The ancient blaster chattered a stream of .45 rounds at the startled men, tearing them apart.

  As the last man fell, J.B. and Doc raced to close the doors and dropped a heavy locking bar into place, only moments before something heavy hit the doors from the other side.

  “Reinforcements are here!” J.B. announced as he and Doc started piling benches, chairs and anything else they could find in front of the double doors as a barricade.

  “This will hold for a while,” Doc stated, busy hands already purging the spent chambers of his weapon. “But I fear not for long.”

  Riffling the still living baron for spare ammo, he found several shells for the Webleys and reloaded the blasters. Roughly hauling the baron off the battered throne, Ryan fired a round right next to the man’s ear, the muzzle-flash washing over the appendage. Writhing in pain, Withers gurgled incomprehensibly, clutching the blistered flesh.

  “Where’s your escape route?” Ryan demanded as the main doors thudded again across the auditorium. There was no response, so he shook the man hard. “Show me!”

  Weakly, Withers pointed, still unable to properly breathe, much less talk with his ruined throat. Ruthlessly, Ryan dragged the dying man along to show the way. He didn’t like torture, but it was the baron’s life or their own. No contest. Desperately, Ryan wanted to ask about Krysty and the others, but since Withers couldn’t speak, there was no point.

  A heavy red curtain covered the wall behind the throne, and hidden under a second tapestry was a small door made of old steel, pieces of metal bolted into place for additional armor.

  “Found it!” Ryan announced when Withers got loose in a burst of strength and managed to pull a derringer from his shirt. The baron shoved the tiny blaster into the outlander’s face, just as Ryan triggered both Webleys at point-blank range. The double blast literally blew the man in two, his face a rictus of shock as the derringer harmlessly discharged toward the ceiling.

  Shoving the warm body aside, J.B. rummaged in his munitions bag and got busy with his lock picks on the door, while Ryan stood guard, Dean and Doc dragging over the table and the throne for protection. Minutes ticked by and the main door remained quiet, which only meant that the pirates were trying something new.

  “Got it,” J.B. said, and Ryan leveled the twin Webley blasters while the door opened.

  The brick room beyond was small and dark, lacking even a window. Doc flicked a match into life on the wall and the tiny flame revealed an arsenal of blasters: flintlocks, revolvers, longblasters, shotguns, pepperboxes and a dozen huge barrels of black powder. There were even a few cases of grens.

  As they filled their pockets with ammo, Ryan paused for a moment at the sight of a bolt-action long-blaster, a Weatherby .460 Nitro Express. The bullets looked even bigger than the man-stoppers used by a Barrett 1A. He debated the matter for a precious moment, then grabbed the Weatherby and passed it to Dean.

  “Try this,” his father suggested. “We’ll need the extra firepower.”

  Without a word, Dean slid the longblaster over a shoulder and raided the boxes for the bulky ammo. The balance of the heavy Weatherby was odd, but the boy was sure he could handle the recoil.

  “This must be the treasure trove of the pirates,” J.B. said, keeping a watch out the door. “Stuff they got off all the ships they raided and sank.”

  “Take the grens,” Ryan directed, stuffing his pockets. “Then find a fuse. We’ll need a diversion to help us get out of here and find the others.”

  “No prob,” J.B. said, leaving the door to rip the top off a wooden crate to reach the HE grens packed in soft straw.

  “Old friend, I fear to offer the suggestion,” Doc rumbled hesitantly, accepting a few of the checkered globes. “But the others may already be across the River Styx. In the arms of Morpheus eternal, as they say.”

  Grimly, Ryan worked the bolt on the Steyr, slamming in a fresh rotary clip. “Mebbe,” he admitted. “But I’ll need to see their dead bodies before leaving.”

  There was a small explosion near the double doors, and through the swirling gray smoke charged a swarm of men who began to climb over the smashed barricade with sharp knives held in their teeth.

  “Let’s go,” Ryan ordered, and walked from the armory firing at every step.

  Chapter Seven

  A chill took Krysty, and she instantly awoke to find herself stark naked and strapped spread-eagled on a hard bed.

  The room was large and well lit, golden sunlight streaming in through the open windows. Old faded decorative paper with flowers and grapes covered the walls, the ceiling a rough stucco popular with rich civvies for some unknown reason. Nude centerfolds from girlie mags had been pasted into picture frames here and there. A large armoire with hinged doors stood near a small table with a wash basin, a stoppered jug of water and several bottles of homemade shine. The only door in sight was closed and bolted shut.

  Krysty tested the ropes holding her to the posts of the canopied bed and found them much too strong to break. Sniffing, the woman realized the sheets were old and used, reeking faintly of rancid sweat.

  Across the room, Mildred was also stripped naked, and tied up in a heavy wooden
chair. The physician seemed unharmed.

  “Awake, at last,” a silky voice purred. “Good. I much prefer it when my sluts know what’s happening to them.”

  In a shadowy corner of the bedroom, a short woman rose from a wingback chair and padded over to the companions. The newcomer was beautiful; there was no denying that. Wavy ebony hair hung down to her trim waist, and firm breasts pushed against the front of her flower-print dress, making the fabric gape between the taut buttons. Her face was oval, with a pointed chin, her arms and long legs smooth and evenly tanned.

  “Where are we?” Krysty asked softly, glancing at the closed door. “No, tell me later. Cut us free and we’ll help you escape.”

  The young woman laughed in an easy manner.

  “I don’t want to escape,” she said, going over to the bed and sitting on the mattress. “I’m the madam here and run this gaudy house, and you’re my new sluts.”

  “Never,” Mildred spit, struggling against her bounds, but the ropes were good, and the chair seemed to be nailed to the floor. Almost as if it were built in place for just the purpose of holding an unwilling woman helpless.

  “I will attend to you later,” the madam said in a voice of stone.

  Turning back to Krysty, the woman reached out to cup the redhead’s left breast and gently squeeze, savoring the delicious flesh. Krysty recoiled from the unnatural contact, which only made the madam chuckle.

  “Don’t like it, eh?” the madam purred. “Get used to it, bitch. We service both men and women here. A lot of men will ride your peach before the fuzz wears off. An’ I will earn a lot of gold and blasters before I toss you to the drunken sailors on a ship to be their barrel girl. Know what that is, red? Let me tell you.”

  Crawling over the naked woman, the madam whispered horrid and obscene things into her ear.

  Suddenly, there came the sound of water hitting the floor, and the madam looked over a shoulder and smiled at Mildred, strapped to her chair in a puddle of urine.

  “Wet yourself in fear?” The madam chuckled, climbing off Krysty onto the floor, not caring where her knees stabbed into the prisoner. “And we haven’t even kissed hello.”

  “Fucking psycho!” Mildred spit. “Perverted freak!”

  “You may call me Sophie,” the mutie said, grinning and walking closer. “And soon that mouth will be pleasuring me, one way or the other.”

  Sophie grabbed Mildred by the hair and pulled her head back. The physician grunted from the pain, but still managed to spit at the woman.

  “Fight, yes, that’s good. Struggle all you want,” Sophie said, licking the bound woman along her cheek, then stepping back and brutally slapping her face with two resounding cracks.

  Her nails raked down Mildred’s spine, leaving bloody furrows.

  Unable to help her friend, Krysty thrashed about in the bed, frantic to get loose. Slamming back and forth in the chair, Mildred tried to avoid the touch of her tormentor. Finally, the madam walked away, and tiny droplets of blood trickled down Mildred’s back to mix with the fluid on the dirty floor.

  Weeping uncontrollably, Mildred started banging her head on the chair, her shoulders shaking with shame and rage.

  “Now the fun begins,” Sophie announced, laughing happily, fumbling in the closet to extract a set of long leather whips.

  “Now, which slut to tame first?” Sophie said thoughtfully, chewing a fingernail. “Red, or shorty, both look so nice. Oh, I cannot wait to hear your screams for mercy. Speak up, who’d like to taste the lash first?”

  “E-eat sh-shit, bitch,” Mildred taunted, her splayed fingers clawing the air.

  Sophie contorted her features into a hideous scowl and strode toward the helpless physician. “Get ready, my pretty,” she growled, clawed hands reaching out for her prisoner.

  Unexpectedly, Mildred screamed in defiance, and her hands came free from the broken arm of the chair, which she had been working on all this time. Sophie stepped back, and Mildred expertly swung her arm about to drive the splintery end of a dowel directly into the kidney of the woman.

  Gasping in shock, Sophie fell to the floor, blood gushing from the wound. Snarling in anger, Mildred leaned over and beat the mutie on the temple with the solid chair arm, the skull bone audibly cracking.

  Throwing away the makeshift club, Mildred went to work on the rest of the knots. When the last rope yielded, the doctor rose from the chair and shuffled over to Krysty. At the bedside table, the physician poured some water on her hands from a ceramic mug to clean away the filth, then smashed the jug and used the sharp shards to cut her friend loose.

  “How…?” Krysty began to ask, her hair flexing wildly on the stained pillows.

  “I pissed on the plastic rope to make it slippery,” she explained, finishing one arm and starting on the other. “Got one hand free while she was amusing herself, then broke off the arm of the chair when I was banging my head. Come on, let’s find our stuff.”

  “And where the others are,” Krysty said, walking to the closet where the madam had stored her whips.

  Inside hung a collection of sexual devices the likes of which Krysty could only guess about. It also held their clothes, and knives, but not their backpacks or blasters. Dressing quickly, they searched the bedroom and found a stash of flintlocks and pouches of black powder in a bottom drawer of the mahogany armoire.

  “Have to make do,” Mildred grumbled unhappily, hefting the muzzleloader and checking the spring that drove the flint onto the flash pan. “Damnation, this piece of crap is going to misfire half the time. The flint is as blunt as a baron’s wit.”

  “New flints,” Krysty said, and brought over a cardboard box of the sharpened stones.

  The women easily repaired the blasters, and armed themselves with as many as they could comfortably carry: two in their belts, one in each boot and one at the small of their backs. Fully armed, they listened at the door and heard only the sounds of muttering voices and soft cries of pleasure.

  Going to the window, they looked at the ville below—winding cobblestoned streets, red tile roofs and swimming pools now used to store drinking water.

  “This was a resort hotel once,” Mildred declared, a blaster in hand as she peeked out the shutters. “I know the chain.”

  “Appears to be a pirate base now,” Krysty added.

  “Maybe their main base?”

  “Could be. But if it is, then Ryan and the others will be with the baron.”

  “There,” Mildred said. “That fancy place on the hill. It’s got to be the baron’s mansion.”

  “Quiet,” Krysty whispered, leaning into the ocean wind.

  Mildred tried to hear what had caught her attention, but could only discern some faint cheering. Glancing around, the crowd noises seemed to be coming from a crumbling sports arena with raised bleachers and a grandstand.

  “Is it Ryan?” Mildred asked, knowing that J.B. would be with him. The men were brothers in everything but name.

  “No, it’s Jak.” Krysty frowned. “I can faintly hear something about the albino outlander going up against Big Mike.”

  There sounded a large roar from the crowd.

  “Local fans like the idea,” Mildred said, furrowing her brow, knowing that arena fights were never fair and always deadly. All of the companions had fought their share.

  Looking down, she saw the ground was only two stories below. An easy climb, even as sore as the women were. She ached in places that had never ached before, and her back felt stiff from the drying blood of those scratches. Mildred only hoped the abrasions didn’t go septic. Her med kit wasn’t in the room.

  “We’ve got to try to help him,” Mildred said, closing the shutters. Going to a side window, she found that one overlooked an alleyway. Perfect.

  “Better hide our trail first,” Krysty advised.

  Going back inside, Mildred saw the madam try to rise from the crimson-stained floor and collapsed back down, the floorboards shaking from the impact.

  “Might get some folks c
hecking on her soon,” Krysty said.

  “Get that jug of shine,” Mildred stated, taking the armoire and shoving it in front of the door. The cabinet wasn’t that heavy, but it should buy them some time.

  Already, Krysty was pouring the shine on the floor and walls. Mildred yanked the dirty sheets off the bed and ripped them into long strips, which she then knotted into a crude rope. Meanwhile, Krysty poured all of the excess black powder on the floor and removed the corks from the unused bottles of shine and placed them carefully on top of the loose powder. Tying one end of the rope to a bedpost, Mildred tossed the other end out the window and started climbing down into the alley.

  Close behind her, Krysty placed a closed bottle of shine on the window ledge and shimmied down next. Reaching the ground, she lit the rope with her butane lighter and it promptly caught, the flames licking up the rope to reach the sealed bottle of homebrew. After only a few moments, it burst apart, sending pieces of glass and burning shine everywhere. There was a brief pause before there was a whoosh, and blue flames began to lick out the open window. Mildred nodded. Good enough.

  Moving quickly, the women darted down the alleyway, trying to keep out of sight as they headed for the arena. But turning a corner, Krysty and Mildred found themselves facing a squad of sec men lounging against a wall and smoking hand-rolled green cigars.

  “And who the fuck are you two, strangers?” the sergeant demanded, glaring suspiciously over his smoldering stogie.

  ONLY A FEW BLOCKS away, the line of chained slaves moved through a short dark tunnel toward death, step by grueling step. For Jak, the throbbing of his sprained ankle was worse than ever since the pirates had removed the bandage to see if it was hiding a weapon.

  The curved walls of the concrete passageway were battered and in disrepair, water stains edged with black mildew and greenish-blue molds, with tiny yellow flowers. One of the slaves before him plucked a flower and sniffed its delicate perfume. Poor bastard. If he survived these contests, or whatever they were heading for, he’d be sorry he touched that flower. It was wart rot, nasty stuff Jak had encountered in the bayou. The mold consumed human flesh, invading your entire body until the victim fell to the ground and burst apart, a loose flap of crumbling skin jammed full of greenish-blue mold. As the line shuffled past a particularly dense patch, Jak held his breath, then breathed through his shirt. Hopefully, that would be enough.