by James Axler
Going to the edge of the wall, Tongamorlena whistled for attention. “Barricade the door!” he shouted.
“Aye, aye, sir!” the overseer yelled, then turned to crack a knotted bullwhip at his workers. “You heard the man! Get moving!”
Shoulders hunched against the expected lash of the bullwhip, the line of chained slaves began hoisting wreckage from the collapsed houses and piling it against the door to reinforce the portal.
But they had only a few pieces in place when somebody on the wall shouted a warning and a strident explosion ripped the massive doors off the weakened hinges. The ton of metal fell to the cobblestones, smashing the slaves and the overseer into crimson pulp. A Firebird flew through the black and gray clouds to strike a pair of cannons set behind a sandbag wall. The rocket hit a man and detonated, the blast setting off the bags of black powder. The resulting explosion sent the cannons in every direction.
A Hummer rolled into view through the breach in the wall, its .50-caliber blaster steadily firing to finish the task. The military wag bumped over the horizontal door and the human remains trapped underneath, ending their cries of pain.
“No prisoners!” Mitchum screamed, driving the Hummer through a crowd of startled pirates, the armored fenders smashing the bodies aside.
The long barrels of flintlocks extended from the open windows of nearby buildings, and miniballs slammed into the wags, bouncing harmlessly off the body armor. The .50 calibers spoke, the heavy slugs chewing a path of destruction along the facade of the buildings, and the sniper ceased.
“Find me the outlanders!” Glassman shouted, shooting a wounded man in the back as he ran away.
“Ace everybody else!” Mitchum corrected, pulling out his blaster and pointing it at the captain. This was the perfect chance to permanently settle the matter of who was in charge.
But Glassman had been expecting the sec man to try a judas strike, and already had his blaster out. The two men fired in unison, the smoky discharges of the black-powder weapons temporarily masking the results of the conflict.
WHEN THE ALARM BELL stopped ringing, Ensign Raynor feared the worst and got ready, laying out a line of clips from his predark blaster for easy access.
Even before the sec men arrived, he had been standing alone to guard the rear gate of HomePort. Only made sense. It was twenty miles to Deadman’s Cliff, and nobody had ever been known to get more than halfway there before getting aced.
A movement in the bushes caught his attention, and Raynor blindly fired his weapon. The motion ceased, but that meant nothing and he stayed alert. The Hunters were tricky. Only the guard of the western gate was allowed to carry a bolt-action blaster, and never had to account for how much ammo he used on a shift. Baron Withers encouraged random shots to try to put some fear into the horrid muties. They were the reason the wall around the ville had been built in the first place. Sure, the Hunters normally stayed in the trees and merely watched the norms, but occasionally they ventured close and stole a horse, sometimes a whole family.
Even from here, the ensign could see pieces of the predark ruins on top of the mesa, and he licked his lips thinking about the loot that waited up there for the first man to reach the city. But the few who tried were never seen again. However, the Hunters would sometimes toss the gnawed bones over the wall, almost as if trying to give the pirates a warning. The mesa was forbidden territory, although the oldsters of the ville whispered that none of the monsters had ever been seen climbing the cliff, almost as if there was something up there that frightened them. Raynor shuddered at the thought, unable to imagine what in nuking hell could frighten a Hunter.
The strident detonations of the Firebirds seemed to become louder, and many structures were burning out of control. But the ensign refused to leave his post until relieved from duty by the sergeant of the guard, or the enemy came and chilled him. He’d given the baron his oath, and a man meant less than a slave if he didn’t keep his word.
Just then, a rattling horse cart rolled out of an alleyway, a large canvas mound covering whatever was in the rear. Holding the reins was an oldster with silver hair, wrapped in a horse blanket as if bitterly cold. Instantly, the ensign suspected looters and worked the bolt on his M-1 longblaster.
“Keep moving,” Raynor said, aiming the weapon. “Can’t use this gate.”
“But sir, I’ve got orders from the baron to haul these blasters outside,” the old man whimpered, cowering slightly. “We’re losing the battle, and I must get these blasters to our snipers.”
“Snipers would have their own blasters,” the ensign said with scorn. “Nobody leaves.”
The old man rubbed his face. “I have a bag of gold,” he stated.
The guard snorted a laugh. “Only we use gold,” he snapped. “Kinnison uses black powder for jack. Now get going before I have you keelhauled for disobeying a direct order!”
“But—”
“I wouldn’t open the gate for anyone other than the baron himself,” Raynor said, then fired a round that went wide of the canvas mound. “Now move!”
“As you say,” the old man said in a sad tone. “Well, I tried. Goodbye, young man.”
Puzzled, Raynor scowled at the expression and a sharp cough sounded from under the tarpaulin. Searing pain took his chest, to be replaced with a numbing cold and then absolute blackness that reached forever.
“Krysty, get the gate,” Ryan said, throwing off the canvas sheet with his blaster.
The redhead clambered from the cart and rushed over to the imposing portal. Grabbing the heavy bar, she tried to shove it aside, then had to use rocks to hammer the rusted metal bolts out of their positions. Even then, the gate itself proved to be rusted shut. This exit hadn’t been used in years.
“No more games,” J.B. said, the Uzi held by his side as he watched the ville streets. “That was a damn waste of time.”
Wrapping the reins around a hitch on the buckboard, Doc snorted in reply. “Attempting to not take a life is never a waste of time,” he rumbled, buckling on his gun belt and stepping down to the ground.
“For once we agree,” Mildred said. “Just wish the path to righteousness wasn’t so well paved with land mines.”
“Again, madam, we agree.”
Trying not to grunt aloud, Jak took the old man’s place at the reins, resting his hurt ankle on his folded camou jacket.
“Hey, lend a hand,” Krysty grunted, throwing her weight against the door to no results.
J.B. stayed on guard while the rest of the companions joined the woman at her task. The gate required the combined strength of everybody to be slowly forced aside, and after Jak drove the cart through, they forced it shut again to confuse the trail. The bolts were still undone on the other side, the sentry aced, but hopefully nobody would notice for a while. Whichever side won the battle, the survivors would certainly come after them for payback.
Past the gate was an open field separating the wall from the jungle, stubbly grass and flowering weeds dotting the land showing it had been cleared by hand. But not for farming. There were no furrows or even irrigation ditches. Just flat open soil.
“A clear field of fire,” Ryan stated, laying the Steyr across his lap as the cart rolled forward. “They expected to get attacked from this direction.”
“Attacked by whom?” Mildred said, then added softly. “Or should I ask, attacked by what?”
“Neutral pronoun, dear lady,” Doc stated, his hands busy reloading the LeMat. He had a lot more charges for the ancient revolver than he did bullets for the British-made Webley.
Nearly lost in the weeds was an old path of rain-washed ruts, the wheel gullies pitted with loose stones and potholes.
“Pirates don’t use this much,” Dean observed, studying the primitive road.
“Which raises an interesting question,” Krysty said thoughtfully. “If they rule this island, why seal off the door that leads to the ruins? It’s an easy climb.”
“Nothin’ there?” Jak suggested, shaking the reins
.
“Mebbe,” Ryan answered pensively, his fingers tripping the checkered grip of the powerful Webley. The front gate of the ville had been armed like a predark tank, but the back gate was merely locked with a lone sentry standing guard. More like they were trying to keep folks in the ville, rather than keeping an enemy outside. Strange.
“Watch for muties,” he warned, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stiffen and raise. He’d felt the same thing a hundred times in the Deathlands and was hardly ever wrong.
In silent agreement, the others checked their weapons and turned their backs toward one another so they could watch the jungle better. Rambling along the crude road, the cart bucked and bounced as it entered the cool shadows of the overhanging branches. Thick vines hung in clusters, each heavily dotted with different-colored flowers. Fruit festooned every branch, the grass littered with rotting peels and chewed cores. A tiny squirrel leaped from a palm tree ripe with coconuts, the limp body of a baby tarantula in its mouth. Birds were singing in every tree, a python hissed at the passing cart and swarms of insects parted before the horse cart and its occupants, closing behind them. The companions began to feel as if they were riding a boat floating through a serene green lake of tall rushes.
Then the berry-laden leaves of a tall bush abruptly parted and something inhuman leaped out to dart across the road. Flinging itself airborne, the thing landed on the horse and grabbed hold of the reins. Caught by surprise, the horse whinnied at the attack and reared on its hind legs, trying to buck off the animal. Still holding on to the reins, the mutie reached out to start throttling the mare with its second pair of arms.
The humanoid creature resembled a silverback gorilla, the largest and most powerful simian species in the predark world. Only this animal was a deep chestnut brown, and its elongated fingers were tipped with tiny black talons.
In unison, Jak and Ryan fired their blasters, the heavy slugs slamming into the huge beast less than a yard away. The mutie gorilla roared at the impacts, but only small trickles of blood were oozing from the deep wounds.
Standing, Dean swung up the Weatherby, but his father was in the way, still firing the Webley. Pounding its chest, the mutie released the trembling horse and reached for the norms. Stoically, they kept firing, but even at point-blank range their blasters were doing almost no damage.
“Try this!” J.B. shouted, squeezing between the men and triggering the shotgun. The pirate armory hadn’t possessed any fléchette rounds, but the double-aught buckshot blew off an arm.
Howling in pain, pale fluid squirting from the ghastly wound, the mutie abandoned the horse to dive at the companions. Dean, Doc, Ryan and J.B. fired again while it was in midair, the triple blast throwing it to the dirt road.
“Giddyap!” Jak shouted, yanking the reins, and the wild-eyed horse started galloping away at top speed.
Behind them, the gorilla rose and started giving chase in a peculiar loping sprint. Aiming for its belly, Dean tried a shot, but the moving cart made him miss. Going to the rear of the cart, Krysty pulled the pin on a gren and dropped the charge rather than throwing it. The metallic sphere bounced twice, then violently erupted between the cart and the mutie, throwing up a cloud of leaves and loose dirt. Covered with fresh wounds, and still losing blood from its missing arm, the creature fell, but still alive, it started crawling after the companions.
“Here!” Dean said, holding out his longblaster lengthwise.
Krysty grabbed the hot barrel, Mildred braced the Thompson on the stable platform of the rifle and pounded the giant mutie with a spray of .45 rounds. The barrage tore the creature apart and it finally dropped.
“Bastard mutie,” Jak cursed, glancing briefly over a shoulder, then turning back to pay attention to the road. Tree stumps and large rocks threatened to smash the rattling cart apart. An instant too slow in a turn and they’d crash. But the teenager refused to reduce their speed and drove on, whipping the horse to go faster.
Miles flew beneath the shaking wheels, and another of the mutie gorillas attacked the cart as it slowed to splash through a shallow creek. Ready this time, Ryan fired a thundering round from the Webley directly into its snarling mouth, blowing out the back of its head. Dripping brains, the creature fell limply across the horse and almost got tangled in the reins before slipping off to the ground. The cart nearly toppled over as its wooden wheels jounced over the bulky corpse.
“Now we know why they had the gate locked!” Krysty said, firing her S&W .38 at something unseen in the shadows of the jungle.
“Tropical paradise my ass,” Mildred muttered, yanking out the exhausted clip and slamming a fresh mag into the Thompson.
Tense hours passed as the cart raced through the lush greenery. A carpet of vines nearly stopped them at one point, and the companions had to get down and push the cart over the obstruction. A fallen tree completely blocked the road at a curve. J.B. and Mildred sprayed the tree and bushes with their rapidfires, while Ryan set a gren and blew the decomposing log apart. The panting horse reared at the explosion and tried to turn away, but Jak forced it onward through the blast crater. But over the next few miles the mare wasn’t running as quickly as before, and the teenager worried he had pushed the elderly horse too hard.
“My dear Jak, why are we slowing?” Doc asked in concern.
“Not me. Horse is,” Jak replied curtly, shaking the reins. “Giddyap!”
In spite of the desperate urging, the old animal began to trot instead of run, and soon even that slowed to a walk. Jak lifted the whip, then put it down. The mare was wheezing for breath, white foam dripping from her mouth. No amount of pain would restore the strength of lost youth.
“Cover me,” Mildred said, hopping from the cart with her med kit. Water was what the poor thing needed, and God help her, she’d give the mare a massive dose of the jolt she stole in the arena. That would get her moving again, but the rush would wear off quickly and kill the beast. She had no choice. They needed the mare to haul them out of the jungle and to the cliff.
The companions maintained random fire into the greenery as the horse greedily accepted the water from her palm. Then she tried to give it the jolt and the horse refused, her nostrils flaring in disgust at the smell of the toxic chem.
“Okay, girl,” she said in a soothing tone, dumping the powder out of her hand. “Can’t really blame you.”
“She take it?” Ryan asked, watching the trees.
“No. Just drive. We’ll be okay.” Jak walked the horse for a mile to let her rest, then broke her into a trot. As long as the cart was rolling, they should be okay.
Minutes later, the overhead branches thinned and they could see the rising cliff only a hundred yards away.
“We made it!” Dean shouted in relief, pointing with his longblaster.
Startled by the cry, the horse started to gallop toward the tall cliff, when two gorillas hit the mare from either side. Burying their teeth into her neck, the creatures tore loose gouts of dark flesh, hot blood pumping from the wounds to wash their inhuman faces. With no reason to hold back, J.B. sprayed all of the animals with the Uzi until they fell as a group, friend and foes entangled forever in death.
“Looks like we walk from here,” J.B. said, slapping in a fresh clip.
“Krysty, help Jak,” Ryan directed, handing the woman one of his blasters. Her .38 would do nothing against these jungle behemoths.
The redhead accepted the Webley and a handful of ammo, then assisted Jak down from the cart. She grabbed him about the waist and they started moving, their blasters cocked and ready.
“Take our packs?” Dean asked, jumping to the grass.
A hooded cobra rose to hiss at him, and Doc blew it away with the shotgun charge of the LeMat.
“Just take the MRE packs and ammo,” his father directed. “We need speed.”
He nodded. “Yes, Dad.”
Dumping his backpack, J.B. pulled the pin on a gren and snugly tucked it over the pile of packs. The first person, or thing, that lifted t
he packs would have its face removed by eight ounces of high-grade military plastique. That ought to slow down even these four-armed monsters.
Roars came from the jungle around them. Mildred put a few bursts from the Thompson into the forest, the leaves shaking under the chattering fury. A gorilla darted into sight, and she concentrated the rapidfire on the mutie until the clip was spent. Swaying, the ape dropped to the ground.
“Bullshit!” Ryan growled, and pumped a few rounds from the Webley into the creature.
Growling and slavering, the gorilla stood and rushed the norms, fresh blood on its massive chest.
“Knavery, eh?” Doc growled, discharging the LeMat and the Webley together. The double roar thundered in the trees, the reports bouncing off the stone wall to sound like a hundred blasters.
Rocking slightly, the hunting ape patted at the gaping wound in its belly, pale blood welling with every breath. Finally, the brutish head lolled and it lay down as if going to sleep.
Snapping the reloaded Webley shut, Ryan triggered the blaster and blew off a chunk of its hairy skull, pinkish-gray brains pouring out like warm grease.
“Head shots only,” he ordered. “These bastards know how to play possum.”
“Incoming!” Dean shouted, firing.
Snarling wildly, a dozen of the great apes charged out of the forest. Slamming their knuckles onto the ground, the muties swung their torsos forward, then grabbed the soil with stubby toes to swing their arms again. Even as he pumped hot lead into their faces, Ryan couldn’t understand how they got any speed that way, but the beasts moved with amazing velocity across the open roadway.
J.B. emptied the Uzi once more, and the rest of the companions fired head shots into the wounded muties. They had a system now that worked, but used a lot of irreplaceable ammo.
Sprinting down the dirt road, more gorillas came from the jungle and were aced. But the next wave didn’t charge at the humans, but stayed just out of range, and only charged when the companions turned their backs to leave.
