Ice and Fire

by James Axler

  "Where will you go?" Krysty asked, seeing that J.B. wanted to ask, knowing that his pride would stop him.

  "North. Have a sister in a ville called Chapmanston. I'll head there."

  "Good luck," Lori said.

  "Mebbe see you some day, Carla." J.B. took a half step toward the powerful motorcycle, then stopped.

  Carla held out her hand to him. "If you're ever around Chapmanston, on the Missouri, come up and see me, John. I'd like that."

  The Armorer took her hand and kissed her chastely on the cheek. Then he broke away and took off his spectacles, wiping them with an unusual vigor. "Go careful, Carla."

  "And you, John. Bye, friends."

  She fired the ignition and revved the engine a couple of times. Then she was gone, the rear wheel spinning in the loose dirt, fishtailing across the highway before gathering speed. They all watched the red glow of her rear light until it finally faded away into the distance.

  "Time to get ready to meet Norman Mote and the others," Ryan said to his companions.

  "Let's do it," J.B. agreed, his glasses finally polished to his satisfaction.

  THEY FOUND that the main gas plant was completely unguarded. Krysty guessed that the Motes had called in every single available man for the attack on the rooming house, even bringing in his sec patrols. It seemed a likely theory.

  By the industrial standards of the late twentieth century, the complex wasn't very large. But by the standards of Deathlands it was enormous. There were three large storage tanks, each holding what must have been thousands of gallons of processed gasoline. The actual processing was done inside a long warehouse-like building. To the north were at least a dozen rocking-donkey pumps, nodding away in the growing light.

  "Good place to meet them," J.B. said approvingly, looking around thoughtfully.

  "Sure is," Ryan agreed. "They aren't going to want to pour too much lead into a place like this. One spark and five miles around could go up."

  "And us with it?" Doc asked.

  "Worse ways of nailing down the lid," Ryan replied. "It'd be quick."

  "Coming!" Jak shouted. "Lotta wags."

  Ryan looked at his small group of friends. "Get ready. And good luck."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE GAS PLANT proved to be an inspired defensive position against the overwhelming numbers of the opposing force. It had several low walls but only one possible entrance. So the Motes and their army had to come through the front door.

  Riddler, bulging over both sides of his saddle, roared ahead of the others, doing a spectacular wheelie, bellowing to the hidden Ryan Cawdor.

  "Where's Zombie? You seen him?"

  J.B. answered. "Seen him and chilled him."

  The fat biker throttled back his bike and stopped very close to the main gates, lowering his voice. "You got no chance, Ryan. Lemme talk to the Motes and try to work something out."

  "Thanks, Riddler. But no thanks. Gotta be this way."

  The rear wheel spit out a spray of dirt as the Hero rejoined the others.

  Ryan and his companions waited.

  IT WAS FULL LIGHT.

  The wind had eased, but it had also veered and was now blowing briskly, parallel to the mountains where the redoubt was concealed.

  Mote, taking charge of the operation himself, remained safely hidden behind his own sec wag. Ryan had glimpsed Marianne Mote, teetering on her high heels, holding the arm of her brutish son.

  John Dern appeared to be in control of the main body of the attackers. Twice Ryan had a chance at a long shot at him with the G-12, but he elected to hold his fire, not wanting to reveal the effective range of his weapon.

  Only five Last Heroes remained alive. As Ryan peered around the edge of the main gate, it seemed as though they were now without any sort of leadership.

  Ryan knelt behind the wall, looking behind him at the thudding machinery and storage tanks of the gas plant and back down the hill to where the vehicles were grouped tightly together. Nobody wanted to make the first move. If Mote chose to play the softly-softly game he could probably drive them out of hiding with starvation. Or thirst. In another hour or so the desert would begin to heat up.

  "Down the hill," Ryan muttered to himself.

  "What?" Krysty said, just to his left.

  "Down the hill! Fireblast! Why didn't I see that as the way?"

  "You skull-flipped, lover?"

  "No."

  "Then…?" Krysty prompted, turning suddenly to look at the looming gas tanks behind them. "You're not…?"

  "Yeah, lover. I am."

  And he did, calling Jak over to quickly give him orders. The albino boy, hair gleaming in the new day's light, scampered off like an eager hound, keeping low to avoid being spotted by the attackers down the highway.

  While Krysty kept watch at the front, Ryan moved to warn the others about what he was going to do.

  Lori simply nodded and J.B. grinned.

  Rick looked blankly up into Ryan's face, struggling to understand what he was saving. "It could…" The words trailed off.

  "That's it, Rick. It could."

  Doc considered the news for several long seconds. "It has a pleasantly Biblical ring to it, my dear Ryan. I believe that I approve of it."

  Krysty called from the main gate. "Here they come, Ryan!"

  Mote was encouraging the first wave of attackers with John Dern at their head. They were advancing in a skirmishing line, bunching on the road, filtering off into the light brush on either side. The Heroes were revving their two-wheel wags, all on the right. Ryan's guess was that they'd head for their base in the old park and come through into the adjacent gas plant.

  It was time for the one big play.

  "Now, Jak! Now!"

  The assault party heard the shout and several hesitated, but Norman Mote, standing behind his own personalized wag, bellowed at them to keep moving.

  "We got 'em outnumbered twenty to one. They'll give in, friends. By hollow tooth and black poison, I swear it!"

  At Ryan's call, Doc, Lori, Rick and J.B. joined Lori by the main frontage to the processing unit, blasters at the ready. All except for Rick, who knelt behind the low stone wall, eyes closed and muttering to himself.

  The sickly smell of gas grew stronger.

  Much stronger.

  Ryan, glancing over his shoulder, cautioned the others as he saw the glint of sunlight off a ribbon of liquid, the air above it shimmering like a desert mirage. Jak appeared around the side of one of the tanks, waving a clenched fist.

  "Get out of the way," Ryan called. "It's spreading."

  The stream of refined gasoline was gaining speed. Jak had opened the main valves on all the huge containers, and thousands of gallons of fuel were flooding through the complex, along the roadway, toward Mote and his people.

  J.B. fished a burner gren from one of his pockets. "Best we get out 'fore I throw this," he suggested quietly.

  "Wait till it reaches the first of them. Here come the bikers! It'll blow clear back to the tanks. Let's move."

  There was a cheer from the attackers and a handful of ill-aimed, harmless shots as they saw the one-eyed man leading his ragged group away from the gas plant, apparently running in panic—running hopelessly, helplessly, toward the same draw that cut behind the ville.

  "Go get 'em!" Marianne screeched, waving a red-nailed fist.

  The stream of gas had become a torrent, bubbling its way down the slope. Some of it foamed off the sides into the thirsty earth, but most of it remained on the blacktop.

  Ryan judged the moment, giving the nod to the Armorer. "Now, J.B., now!"

  The gren was pitched into the air, catching the sun at its highest point, and dropped to the gasoline river. J.B.'s aim was perfect and the burner landed smack in the middle of the road, bouncing and rolling a couple of times.

  And failing to ignite!

  "Black dust!" J.B. cursed, watching as the bikers roared toward them.

  There wasn't enough time to try another gren to fire
the gasoline. Thanks to razor-gloved Kruger, it wasn't necessary.

  Rat yelped a warning, waving his scarred arm to the right, managing to get the powerful hog off the blacktop before he splashed into the fuel. Freewheeler, Harlekin and Riddler saw the sign and followed him. But Kruger had his grizzled head down, concentrating on gunning his bike's engine for full power. He had a moment of extreme bewilderment as liquid sprayed all around his bike and over him.

  "Rain?" he muttered.

  The hot exhaust did the trick.

  "Hell's bloody bells," Rick breathed, overcome with an almost religious awe.

  The explosion was cataclysmic, beginning with a spark of infinitely bright white light that centered on Kruger's two-wheel wag. The flames engulfed the rider and his machine and spread with a breathless speed, racing along the surface of the gushing gasoline. The inferno barreled down the hill toward the paralyzed attackers, off the sides of the road and into the dry brush, quickly backtracking to the refinery and the spilling tanks.

  "Get down!" Ryan shouted, grabbing Krysty and dragging her flat in the dirt behind a slight rise in the ground. He pressed his face to the earth, one arm around her shoulders.

  The ground shook as the tanks blew, one after the other. The explosion was deafening. Chunks of metal erupted into the air, two hundred feet or more, then rained back to earth, deadly molten missiles of death.

  Ryan leaped to his feet, blaster ready at the hip, eye raking the surrounding area, appraising what had happened.

  Thick black smoke billowed everywhere, making it difficult for Ryan to see. His nostrils caught the familiar stench of roasting flesh. At the epicenter of the holocaust Kruger had fallen from his bike. He'd risen to his feet and then dropped to his knees like a monk at his morning devotions.

  And so died. Flames continued to dance from his charred and blackened flesh, like the stump of a tree at the end of a forest fire.

  The river of gas, as it caught, had devoured dozens of the men from the ville, swallowing them hungrily and moving on toward the center of Snakefish itself. The Motes' wag had gone, reversing in hasty panic, just avoiding the onrushing inferno of death and destruction.

  Those who hadn't fallen to the flames were running into the brush in wide-eyed panic. Many were screaming, and threw down their blasters as they ran. But at the edges of the highway, the dust-dry mesquite and creosote bushes had ignited, crackling brightly, passing the small flames from branch to branch. The veering wind carried them as fast as a man could hope to run.

  "Any hurt?" Ryan called, watching as the members of his group got to their feet and brushed off sand and dirt.

  The sound of the gas plant blowing had almost deafened Ryan, and only Jak's pointing finger reminded the one-eyed man that four of the bikers had dodged the initial blaze.

  Harlekin had fallen off his machine and was stumbling toward them, trying to cock his scattergun as he ran. Ryan took careful aim with the G-12 and put a round through the Hero's forehead, punching him onto the ground.

  Freewheeler had fought for control of his Indian Chief, wrestling it in a sliding spin and aiming for Lori. The tall blond teenager stood rock steady, her pearl-handled PPK clutched in both hands.

  The popping of the .22 was ridiculously flat and insignificant, but her aim was true. The rider threw his arms wide, a bloody hole flowering in the center of his bearded face. He crashed out of the saddle, the bike rearing up like a frightened stallion and smashing on top of him.

  Only Rat and Riddler remained alive.

  The smaller of the two men spied Rick Ginsberg, standing stricken and helpless, empty-handed, to one side of the group. Rat angled his hog in the freezie's direction, flourishing his shotgun in his right fist. Rick whimpered and raised his hands to his face to hide his eyes.

  "Mine," Krysty called, leveling her blaster and shooting Rat four times through the chest. The shotgun flew into the air and dropped almost at Ginsberg's feet. The bike swerved out of control, and Rat toppled from the saddle, his body bouncing twice. His head cracked against a boulder, rolled away then lay still.

  His face twitching with shock, Rick picked up the scattergun and tucked it under his arm, as a stockbroker would do with his rolled umbrella.

  Riddler had throttled down and stopped twenty yards from Ryan, amid the knee-high scrub. He still held his shotgun, cradled across his ample lap, but the hammers weren't cocked. He looked at the seven friends, his gaze returning to Ryan.

  "Never seen a firefight better fucking named, Ryan," he said, grinning,

  "Yeah. Time for us to move on," Ryan said, keeping the G-12 steady on the last of the Last Heroes.

  "Time for me to move on, too." Riddler laughed. "Chance for you an' me to settle those fucking debts we spoke 'bout, Ryan?"

  Ryan gestured with the barrel of the automatic rifle at his friends. "Lots of creditors here, Riddler," he said.

  "I was thinking of moving… that way." The Last Hero pointed to the ribbon of blacktop that stretched out across the desert, behind the ruins of the gas plant. The remnants of the Sierra Sunrise Park had also caught fire, wood cracking and popping in the heat. Ryan considered for a moment. Trader had said that a dead enemy wouldn't ever come back to chill you. It would be simple to shoot the fat man, waste him with a single round. His finger tightened momentarily on the trigger, then relaxed.

  "Get going."

  "So long, brother." Riddler waved a fist to the others. "Brothers and sisters. Live righteous days. So long now."

  Like Carla Petersen before him, Riddler revved up the powerful engine and roared away, beyond the pall of smoke.

  Doc looked toward the ville. "The buildings are catching fire. I suggest that we might consider leaving."

  "Best suggestion I heard all day." Ryan slung the blaster over his shoulder.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  "VILLE'S DONE FOR," Jak observed, leading the way along the side of the scorched highway. Bodies lay everywhere, like blackened logs, one or two of them still moving. The smell of baked meat filled everyone's nostrils, and the smoke was whisked away by the changeable wind.

  Snakefish was well ablaze. As the friends drew nearer they could see women and children scurrying frantically from the burning buildings, trying to save whatever possessions they could. Very few of the men had made it back, most of them having chosen to run into the brush on the wrong side of the blacktop, so that the rushing wave of flames pursued them to their doom.

  "Look who's here." J.B. pointed with the toe of his boot to where one of the chunks of human charcoal was writhing in a slow-motion agony. The remnants of an M-16 near the clawed hand told them that this was what remained of John Dern, dealer in guns and failed assassin.

  His eyes had been seared in their sockets, and his hair blasted from his wrinkled skull. Only the oddly gentle movements told them that life remained within the basted carcass.

  "Chill him," Lori whispered. "I don't mind what he done. Nobody should—"

  "Leave him be," Ryan ordered. "Man gets what he deserves."

  They headed for the ville, the glowing heat of the burning buildings scorching their skin as they drew closer. Fire leaped from shingled roof to tarred porch. The whole of Snakefish, end to end, was blazing. Hardly anyone took any notice of the seven outlanders as they picked their way carefully around the streets of the ville.

  At one point Ruby Rainer hobbled past them, eyes wide and crazed. Her blouse was smoldering across one shoulder and the hem of her shirt had been burned clear away. She held an empty bird cage in her right hand and a wooden spoon in the other.

  "That's the Motes' wag," Krysty said, pointing down an alley near the temple.

  Down the road a little way the whole storefront of Handmaid exploded out in a great blossoming of multicolored fire.

  "Wind's veering," Krysty told her companions. "If it goes right around, it'll carry the flames into the brush where the rattlers are. Block us off from reaching the redoubt if we don't watch it."

  Ryan coughed as
the billowing smoke enveloped them. "Got me a triple-wish to see those three down and sky-staring."

  J.B. shook his head. "Better we move on out fast, Ryan. Revenge won't buy you a good burying."

  "We move through Deathlands. If we don't leave things a touch better after we're gone, then what's the point? I say we clear them out."

  The Armorer hesitated a moment. "Guess you're right, Ryan. They must be along that dirt road, saving some jack from the temple."

  "The doors at the back of the wag are open," Doc said, walking toward the parked vehicle with Lori at his side.

  Joshua Mote suddenly appeared around the side of the armored truck, arms filled with a pile of papers. As soon as he saw Doc he dropped them, reaching for a blaster at his hip.

  "Dead old fucker!" he snarled.

  But Doc's Le Mat was already drawn and cocked and he fired first. The single .63-caliber shotgun shell hit the curly-headed young man low in the belly, doubling him over.

  "Wrong again, Master Mote," Doc stated quietly. "The dead fucker is yourself."

  Mote rolled on his back, clutching at his stomach, trying to staunch the massive blood flow from the gaping wound. Lori stepped forward quickly and lifted her foot in the air, stamping down hard on Joshua's open mouth. The heel of her boot smashed in his front teeth, the silver spur snagging the flesh of his lips. She leaned with all her weight, grinding her boot as hard as she could, withdrawing it with a smile of contentment.

  "Bastard," she said, watching him die.

  "You killed my boy, you whore-slut gaudy bitch!" Norman Mote screamed, standing at the corner of the burning building, clutching an effigy of one of the mutie rattlers that looked as if it were made from pure silver. He staggered drunkenly, and his gray hair was tilted lopsidedly across his sweating temples.

  Ryan didn't hesitate.

  The 9 mm round that burst from the SIG-Sauer drilled a neat hole through the angry furrow between Mote's eyes. Like an empty suit of clothes, Norman Mote, Guardian of the Shrine, slumped dead, his body rolling against his dead son's legs.

  "Where's bitch-queen?" Jak asked, looking around the corner of the alley.