by James Axler
THOUGH THE LAND had looked fairly even from high above, it was actually seamed with innumerable narrow ravines and dry riverbeds. Doc surmised that this was all a result of the unimaginably catastrophic forces that had shifted the land a hundred years earlier. Since the old Golden State had always been a place of earthquakes and landslides, it wasn't surprising to see the flat desert ripped and patched.
Krysty's feeling that there might be a ville on the far side made them cautious about approaching carelessly. Also, there were sinister tracks in the soft red dust.
"Sidewinder," Jak suggested, pointing to an odd swirling pattern in the sand. There were also peculiar marks, as though large wag tires had been rolled ceaselessly around.
The light breeze through the shoulder-high scrub produced a constant dry rustling that would cover the approach of any creature. Ryan felt the short hairs raising on his nape.
"Bad place," he muttered, almost to himself.
But Krysty, at his side, heard him and nodded. "I got that feeling, too. Best we get across it as fast as we can."
"Not easy, towing the freezie. The way he looks, a half mile'll put him down and out."
"Could go back, lover?"
"Yeah. Nobody ever gets anywhere by going back, do they? Let's go on."
Once they had plunged into the sagebrush, dotted with elegant saguaros, it became difficult to see more than ten paces ahead. The switchbacking terrain was exhausting, even for the hardier members of the group. For Rick Ginsberg, the effect was devastating. After less than twenty minutes he collapsed, eyes rolling up into their sockets, a thin froth dribbling from his cracked lips.
"Cruise up Mulholland after dark and just watch the lights," he mumbled.
The other six gathered around him. Lori dropped to her knees, breathing hard, wiping dusty sweat from her forehead, brushing away her tangled hair. Doc also knelt down.
"By the three Kennedys! This heat quite debilitates one, does it not? I fear that our frozen comrade is not quite up to it. Should we not return to the redoubt and jump elsewhere?"
"I'll give him some water," Krysty said, kneeling beside the prostrate man.
Ryan looked around. They were in a shallow saucer-shaped depression, but ahead of them the land seemed to be rising. "Jak?"
"Ryan?"
"Go up and see if you can get high enough to check how far to the edge of this desert."
The boy returned in less than five minutes, his white hair tinted pink with the fine sand. He jumped down the last bit of the slope.
"Not far," he said.
"Hour? Two?"
"Three. With freezie…? Ten hours. Mebbe more."
Rick was, once more, asleep. Krysty looked up from giving him a drink, her green eyes meeting Ryan's stare unflinchingly.
"Nobody said it'd be easy," she whispered accusingly. "Man's sick, tired, been lying with a dark mind for a hundred years. What'd you expect, lover? Got to be slow with him."
"I know it."
ODDLY IT WAS Doc who first heard the distant sound.
He stood up, putting his hand to his ear, listening hard. Apart from the dozing freezie, the others all looked curiously at the old man.
"What is it?" Ryan asked, his ears filled by the noise of the wind hissing through the scrub. He could just catch the sounds of a chem storm, rumbling and crackling, miles to the east, beyond the mountains.
"For a moment I thought I could hear the sound of… But that is midsummer madness. The folly of an old fool, they always say, you know."
Ryan was about to relax again, deciding it was one of Doc's fantasies, when he heard it, too. When all of them heard it.
A distant, regular humming noise, like an errant wasp, buzzing across the desert, coming from where Krysty claimed there might be a ville. The sound was growing louder.
"Mighty big insect," J.B. observed, cradling his new blaster, and looking anxiously up at the cloud-speckled sky.
Rick opened his eyes and gazed blankly upward, blinking through the pebbled glasses. "What's…? It's an airplane? By God, but it's—"
"Everyone down," Ryan shouted, setting an example by diving beneath a stunted clump of ocotillo. Krysty landed at his side, with J.B. beyond her. Ryan could see that the others were also taking cover.
The noise was louder, hiccuping occasionally, rasping and whining. He peered up through the sparse protection of the brush.
And saw it.
The freezie had been right. It was a plane. Two wings on each side, with circles of red, white and blue painted on them; a stubby body, with twin cockpits. It was about a hundred feet above the ground, swaying from side to side, the racket now quite deafening to the people below it.
It had a single revolving propeller set on the point of its nose. Blue smoke coughed from the engine. Ryan could make out only one flier, his round, helmeted face hidden behind an enormous pair of glinting goggles. As far as he could make out, the flying machine carried no blasters.
It dipped and swooped overhead, carrying on toward the lower slopes of the mountain. Jak started to get up, then ducked down again. "Coming back," he shouted.
It passed about two hundred yards to the south of them, again apparently not noticing them. Finally the plane vanished away across the desert in the direction it had originally come from. As the sound faded, everyone stood and dusted themselves off.
"I've seen pix of old planes in vids," Ryan said, "but not one like that. Looked real old."
"Bless my soul," Doc said. "That was a Sopwith 1 1/2-Strutter, or I miss my guess. I studied the first World War during my imprisonment by the Cerberus dogs. Yes, indeed. A trusty biplane. A Sopwith 1 1/2-Strutter. Such a coincidence after we'd been talking about if there were any planes left in Deathlands."
Rick stood up, looking shaken. "What kind of world is this?" he said slowly. "It's a crazed mix of the past, my present and your future. It's all bloody madness."
"Yes," Ryan agreed. "It is."
It was now obvious that there must be a ville beyond the arid wasteland, so they pushed on at top speed, taking turns helping the frail man.
Each dusty arroyo was like the next one and like the previous one. Small clusters of cactuses with steely thorns made walking difficult. Despite Jak's estimate of how far away the edge of the desert was, the hours drifted by and it didn't seem to get much closer.
"Looks like a trail here," said Lori, who'd been leading the way, stumbling and cursing in her spike-heeled boots.
"Hold up," Ryan called, joining her and taking the lay of the land. They were in a broader-sided valley, and the bottom did seem to be trampled flatter. He knelt and examined the earth closely, seeing marks of some kind of wags. J.B. and Jak knelt beside him.
"Two wheel wags," the Armorer observed. "Look at the pattern. Not four-wheelers."
"Watch your step," Krysty warned. "Good place for an ambush."
"Can we rest?" Rick panted. His neat jacket and pants had been torn by the thorns of the innumerable cactuses and covered in a patina of orange dust. Blood dappled the man's hands where he'd fallen, and his face beneath the mask of dirt was pale and lined. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours, and Ryan yet again pondered on their wisdom in reviving him.
Everyone looked at Ryan, who shook his head. "No. Got to keep moving. This place has taken us the better part of a damned day already. Sun's getting low. Don't want to get caught out by night. By the signs we're not far off where this ville might be. We'll keep going on."
Rick shrugged wearily. "For this I slept a hundred years? Momma was right. I should have stayed home and become a doctor. Very well—" he waved a hand to Ryan "—lay on, my trusty thane of Cawdor. And cursed be him that first shall cry—"
He was interrupted by a piercing scream from Lori, who had ignored Ryan's instructions and gone ahead around the corner. Overlaying the scream was a noise that sounded like a dozen raging chain saws.
Ryan's reactions were the quickest, and he burst through the narrowing rocks, a
round the bend in the trail.
He faltered as his eye took in the horrific scene of a heart-stopping nightmare.
Chapter Thirteen
A DIAMONDBACK RATTLESNAKE lay coiled in the desert sand, its layered rattle vibrating furiously. The reptile's forked tongue flicked in and out of its mouth, tasting the air around it. The long teeth, angled back, emerged from just below the maxillary bone of the upper jaw. Its slitted eyes remained motionless on either side of the flattened skull. It was well over twenty feet long, its body as thick as the thigh of a grown man.
It was, without the least shadow of a doubt, the largest mutie snake that Ryan Cowdor had ever seen.
The setting sun glinted off some sort of metal strip around the creature's throat, like a silvery collar. It caught Ryan's eye, but his instant preoccupation was the girl sprawled helplessly in the dirt in front of the rearing creature.
In her haste to be first, Lori must have almost run over the top of the giant rattler, stumbling across the bony tail.
The snake's gaping jaws were wide enough to engulf Lori's entire skull, and a tiny glistening bead of poison hung from the needle points of the fangs. It had reared up, at least six feet high, above the screaming girl, its shadow across her body.
Ryan's H&K G-12 was up and ready, braced against his hip, aimed at the spade-shaped head of the reptile. But his finger held still on the trigger of the powerful blaster.
"No!" Doc shrieked from just behind him, his voice so unexpectedly loud that Ryan nearly let rip with the automatic.
"Why not?"
"It'll fall on her and the child'll be instant grave fodder."
It was unmistakably true. The rattler was so gigantic that it hung over Lori, menacing her, its head weaving slowly to and fro. The warning rattle of its tail continued unabated.
The girl seemed almost paralyzed, like a rabbit in the lights of a night wag. She was on her back, legs drawn up, one hand lifted as though she could simply push away the monster snake. Her mouth was open and she was crying out, a string of pleading, helpless words.
"Could try and take its head off?" J.B. suggested.
The rattler was about thirty yards away from the group, its eyes registering their presence. But most of its attention was fixed on the blond girl beneath it.
"Hell of a chance it'd chill her before we could chill it," Ryan replied.
Rick Ginsberg had joined them, panting hard, one hand clamped to his side. His eyes were round with disbelief. "Is that… ? You never said a word about sci-fi monsters, Ryan. It's a dream. A nightmare! It'll kill the girl, unless…"
"Shut fuck up!" Jak snapped, hefting one of his throwing knives, gripping it by the weighted hilt. "Could hit eye, Ryan?"
"No," Doc said despairingly. "A clean kill or drive it away."
For several racing heartbeats nobody moved or spoke. The snake's head kept up its hypnotic swaying, and Lori began to weep uncontrollably.
Ryan, keeping his voice low, spoke to the others. "Got to go for the head with blasters. All at once. Should manage to splatter it apart."
"I forbid it, Ryan," Doc whispered, his left hand playing nervously with an errant strand of hair. "The risk is too great."
"You got a better idea? If not, then we'll do it like—"
"Help me, please," Lori called, her voice barely audible above the harsh noise of the snake's rattle.
"Yes," Doc said suddenly. "Distraction. I'll distract the beast and you can then do the shooting part."
Without another word, the old man was off and running, waving the walking cane in his right hand, fumbling as he ran with the silver handle, discarding the ebony case to bare the steel rapier blade within it.
"The double-stupe old…!" Ryan exploded, taken by surprise. "Get ready to try and chill the mutie!"
Everyone drew their own blasters, ready to open fire at Ryan's order, aiming at the blunt, questing head of the rattler.
"Come, thou mighty worm, Ouroboros!" Doc shouted, trying to attract the bright, soulless eyes from Lori toward himself. He leaped into the air and brandished his sword.
Slowly, incuriously, the snake peered down at him, its rattle slowing to a menacing, vibrating hum. It lifted its head even higher, retreating a little, the smooth coils of muscle tensing.
"Going t'strike," J.B. warned.
Lori had fallen silent, looking around at the bizarre capering figure in his stained frock coat and cracked knee boots. The sword flashed crimson as it caught the last rays of the dying sun. Doc darted in and thrust at the nearest part of the giant snake, bringing his rapier back dripping dark blood. But the rattler didn't move its head, and its eyes were unflickering.
Ryan had leveled his G-12, aiming at a point a hand's span below the jaw. He could actually see the tiny ruby glow from the laser sight on J.B.'s new MP-7 SD-8, an inch or so higher than where he was aiming. Jak's Magnum and Krysty's P7A-13 pistol were also focused on the creature's head and neck.
"Ready," Ryan whispered.
"Avaunt, creature from pitchiest night!" Doc yelled, encouraged by the success of his first assault.
The mutie rattler's stunning speed took them all by surprise.
Before anyone could even tighten a finger on a trigger, the snake had weaved back and then struck, its head a blur of movement.
By the sheerest fluke, Doc happened to be waving his sword in the beast's general direction, even though he was looking down at Lori. The snake virtually impaled itself on the tip of the rapier, jerking it from Doc's hand. The force of its attack knocked Doc flying to the dirt in a tangle of arms and legs. But the prick of the steel was just enough to deflect its snapping lunge at the old man.
Frustrated, hissing in fury, its tail swinging with the rattle back in overdrive, the mutie monster straightened up, ready to strike at the man and woman in its shadow.
Ryan wasn't about to take any more chances with the enormous reptile. "Now!" he yelled, squeezing the trigger of the blaster. Set on continuous, the G-12 poured out a devastating stream of lead, accompanied by J.B.'s gun on triple burst. The snap of Krysty's handgun and the boom of Jak's powerful cannon counterpointed the rippling roar of the rifles.
The head and upper throat of the great reptile simply disintegrated under the impact of thirty or forty rounds of ammunition. Blood sprayed, and a heavy, black ichor oozed from the mutilated skull of the creature. Its body began to thrash about with a fearful violence, kicking up blinding clouds of dust. Doc and Lori vanished behind the red-orange veil of sand.
"Let's get them out!" Ryan ordered, dropping his gun and darting forward, aware of the other three at his side. He noticed from the corner of his eye that even Rick Ginsberg had joined in, hobbling on his rough stick.
Lori had begun to scream again. Ryan found her first and heaved the girl to her feet, discovering that she was in shock as she collapsed helplessly to the dirt. With a grunt of effort, he managed to lift her onto his shoulders, carrying her away from the appalling noise of the monster's death throes, the demented clicking of its rattle.
Doc managed to move out on his own, clutching his arm where he'd jarred it in the fall. He had to wait until the writhing began to ease, which allowed him to go look for his swordstick. While Jak looked after Lori, calming her, the others went to examine the twitching corpse of the mutie rattler.
Its head was pulped and both eyes were gone. The main fangs had snapped off into short, splintered stumps, from which threads of poison still oozed into the dirt. The remainder of the body was moving slightly as the nerve endings began to close down on any messages.
"What's that on its neck?" J.B. asked, pointing at the silvery collar that Ryan had glimpsed a few speeded seconds earlier.
Krysty leaned over the immense body, avoiding the rattle that still vibrated with no more noise than a child's toy. "It's locked on," she said. "It'll take some cutting to get it off."
"What's the lettering say?" Ryan asked.
"A name. Can't…" The girl wiped blood away. "Yeah. Azrael. And the
number twelve. That's all. Gaia! You figure it's someone's pet?"
"Could be." The Armorer turned to Ryan. "Remember that baron up north… one that had an extra pair of residual hands?"
"Yeah. Oh, sure. He had a mutie maggot as his special pet. Slept in a big wooden bed with silk sheets and got fed like a baby."
"It's a nightmare." Rick shook his head. "I know that now. You're all figments of my imagination. Inside the coolant capsule I've gone stark mad. Yeah, as mad as a hatter. Hatters were mad because they used a lot of mercury in the process of making hats. Fumes rotted their brains. Mad hatters. That's me. Rattlers as big as a semi. Maggots as pets. Redheads with pistols. Albino kids with Clint Magnums. One-eyed men and… I can't stop talking. Why's that, Ryan?"
"Because you're in shock, Rick, and you're kind of not used to the Deathlands and its pleasures yet. That'll come."
"Terrific. I can't wait. I'm just not coping… know what I mean? Momma always said I was a born underachiever."
Lori was still shaking. "I'm wanting to fuck out of this," she said, voice shrill and high.
"You're all right now, my delicate little Meissen shepherdess."
"No thanks to you! Nearly killing me with jumping in and shouting at the mutie bastard. Stupid yellow old triple-crazy."
Doc's face fell. "I confess that my efforts were not quite as successful as I had hoped, my dear child, but I truly did my best."
"Not best enough, and I'm not your fucking child! You made me rad-sick!"
Ryan felt the old glow of scarlet anger begin to blaze. Something that he'd learned, painfully, to control over the years. He was aware of the flush of heat that brightened the scar across his face, and his fingers clenched with the surging rage. In some ways it was a pleasant, reassuring feeling that swamped everything else. To slap Lori Quint across her petulant, pretty little face and knock her on her ass in the trampled dirt would be a good thing.
"Good thing," he muttered.
Fortunately—at least for Lori—Krysty Wroth had been with Ryan long enough to recognize the flaring danger signals.
"No, lover," she said, taking a half step that put her between Ryan and the trembling blond teenager.
