by James Axler
Fluttering her great wings, the mutie took flight and circled above the cave one last time before turning her attention to the smaller creatures of the desert. Lizard eggs would do for now, but she could already taste the fresh blood and imagined it running down her fangs and chest. Soon enough, she would return and feast upon their living flesh.
Chapter Five
The black clouds slowly became tinted with hints of orange and gray with the coming of dawn as Harold darted from the shadows and moved to the outer wall of the ville. The hunchback looked both ways for the sec men on patrol, but his timing was good. They were beyond the curve of the circular wall, and the buildings blocked their view of this area. But only for a moment. The second team would be here in a few moments.
Taking a battered brass key from a pocket of his dirty clothes, Harold unlocked the smashed trunk of a big luxury car and stepped inside. Crouching low, he closed the lid tight, pulling until hearing the click that told him the lock was engaged. After waiting a few minutes to become adjusted to the darkness, Harold pushed down the back seat, wiggled into the front, clambered over the dashboard and out the gap where the windshield used to be. Crumpled cars and wags surrounded him on every side, tireless wheels jutting out, sprinklings of greenish glass squares everywhere, and seat belts dangling from above. From outside, the wall appeared to be impenetrable, a solidly compacted mass of smashed metal, but the hunchback knew that was false. The old baron had designed this area himself, and after the workers were finished, Harold had done something to them that made his head hurt to remember. And sometimes he woke from fevered nightmares of screaming men begging for life.
Able to see somewhat better now, Harold wiggled forward between an array of tires and tailpipes, ducking under a transmission and into an explosion hole in the side of a military APC. Climbing up the sloped interior, he left by the escape hatch in the roof, slid across the armor and climbed down the undercarriage of a slanted school bus.
A rat scurried from the wreckage and Harold stomped it flat, then moved on. Nasty things. Folks got sick and sometimes died when they got bitten. The old baron and the new both had a reward on the rats—kill a hundred and get a day off from work. Nowadays, it was getting hard to find a hundred. The rats wouldn't come into the ville anymore, which made Harold sad. The first gift he had ever given Laura was a box of a hundred dead rats. That was the first day she kissed him, and he knew they were in love.
Carefully sliding through the split top of an armored bank truck, Harold maneuvered up the wall shelves and into the front seats. Unlocking the passenger side door, he swung out and dropped the full yard to the concrete apron outside the ville.
Directly before him was the dead river, the stink of sulfur hurting his nose and eyes. On the other side of the stained concrete banks were the ruins of the predark city that he had been named after. Holding his breath, Harold listened for any movement on the wall above. But the world was still asleep; not even the sting-wings or the lizards were up and moving yet.
However, the clouds seemed more yellowish than normal, and panic seized the man as he wondered if the deadly acid rain was coming early this year. But in spite of his proximity to the polluted river, the smell in the morning air was wrong, not strong enough. He gratefully relaxed his powerful shoulders. No storm was forthcoming, and it would be safe for him to leave the ville and do what had to be done to save his poor wife.
Closely following the rusted wrecks composing the wall, Harold watched the searchlights crisscross the brightening sky. Dawn was when the night crew went home to sleep, and the day crew turned off the colossal lights and did maintenance on the alcohol-driven generators, transformers and jennies.
Shivering slightly from a damp chill in the air, Harold waited until the beams winked out. Moving fast, he dashed forward a dozen yards and dropped to the rough ground. Prying off the grate of a storm drain with his bare hands, Harold scrambled inside and eased the hundred pounds of rusty iron gently back into place.
He was halfway there.
WITH A SMOOTH hydraulic hiss, the black metal door to the redoubt moved aside and the sputtering Hummer rolled through the opening, bluish smoke coughing from the muffler. At the steering wheel, Ryan gave it some gas and worked the choke until the engine smoothed somewhat.
"You sure the timing is right?" he asked gruffly, studying the gauges on the dashboard. Plenty of fuel, and the battery was charged, oil pressure and water temp at acceptable levels.
"Sounds like bad piston rings," J.B. told him, standing in the cargo area, an arm resting on the long M-60 machine rifle attached to an upright gimbal, a linked belt of ammo traveling from its breech to a big box attached to the stand.
There was another sputtering cough, and a small explosion of blue smoke.
"Is this going to make it to the ruins?" Krysty asked from the front passenger seat, the Steyr SSG-70 cradled in her arms. With Ryan doing the driving, she was the point guard for the journey. "Be a long walk back."
"Especially, sir, conveying the rest of us on your back," Doc added from his perch on top of a stack of weapons crates. The Hummer was much larger than a military-style jeep, but not quite of sufficient size to comfortably hold seven people and a load of supplies. Doc had lost the coin toss, and so was resigned to the cargo area with the water barrel and bazookas. A folded towel offered his bony hindquarters some comfort, but not much.
"Be okay, just old," Jak said from the back seat, jammed between Dean and Mildred, with boxes of supplies at their feet.
"The engine is just burning off the excess oil buildup. We flushed it twice, but there's always a bit left over," Dean explained as the engine suddenly smoothed into a powerful hum. "See? Told you."
"Better," Ryan agreed, gunning the gas a few times to check the response. The big Detroit engine obeyed promptly, so the Deathlands warrior put the Hummer into gear and started following the tunnel to the exit.
Krysty bobbed her head about to see where they were going. The damn snorkel for the power plant was next to her window, partially blocking her view, but they hadn't been able to get the thing to retract, so she was stuck. At least it was only the air intake and wasn't blowing exhaust into the wag. The snorkel was designed to automatically cut in if the vehicle went into water deeper than a few feet. Jeeps were faster, and APCs offered serious protection, but for general work, Krysty thought the Hummer was damn near perfect. It did everything well, even if the only armor it had was in the floorboards to protect the crew from land mines. The doors were only stretched canvas and wouldn't stop a newborn sting-wing.
A faint grayish light was emanating from the distant opening to the outside world, giving enough illumination for driving, but Ryan hit the headlights just the same. The brilliant halogen bulbs flashed on, filling the tunnel with blinding white light, almost painful to see.
"That should blind the mutie, if it returned in the night," Mildred said, blocking her face with a raised hand. "Damn near blinds me, as it is."
Jak, an albino, said nothing, and simply slid on a pair of old cracked sunglasses.
"Well, if it did come back, this will chew it to bits," J.B. boasted, jacking the big arming bolt on the M-60. "But watch for the brass. She spits them fast and far."
"Too bad that .50 cal from storage wouldn't fit," Dean said wistfully. "That'd chill any mutie."
J.B. ducked under a roof support beam. "And most war wags."
"And flip over the vehicle," Ryan commented, both hands on the wheel. "Not even a Hummer can support a .50 cal in full fire."
"Thirty fine," Jak stated. "Not need nukes chill ants."
"John, be sure to aim for the center," Mildred said, sitting uncomfortably on top of a field-surgery kit. "The wings are only membrane with no real circulatory system."
"Like shooting fish in a barrel," Dean stated confidently.
"No, son. Only a fool aims for the fish," his father said, concentrating on driving. "You shoot the barrel. It can't dodge."
"Just spend the bras
s, and save your ass, because I don't want to have to use this," the physician said, affectionately patting the belted canvas lump between her boots. It was the find of her life, and one that she had been searching for since she awoke in the twenty-second century. A field-surgery kit. A real, honest to God, fully equipped, U.S. Army MASH medical kit. Mildred had found the incredible treasure in the first-aid station, which had the only locked room in the redoubt. Probably to keep the troops out of the brandy and drugs in the supply cabinet. And as Mildred wasn't registered with the redoubt's mainframe as the doctor on duty, the palm lock had refused her admittance, but a crowbar convinced the door to open for her anyway. Neatly jammed with surgical instruments specifically designed for soldiers in combat, the pack was as heavy as hell, but the physician couldn't have been more pleased. Dr. Mildred Wyeth was a trained doctor, but without instruments, there wasn't much she could do for serious injuries.
The external light got brighter, and the companions prepped their weapons. Ryan slowed the Hummer to a crawl, but as they rounded a turn they found the outside ledge completely empty, only a few of their spent brass from the previous night on the rocky ground.
Braking to a halt, Ryan killed the engine to save fuel. The companions disembarked, with J.B. staying at the machine gun to give them cover if necessary. Warily stepping outside, the friends found the tunnel ended at the top of a gently sloping hillock that flowed downward into a vast expanse of sandy desert, low dunes rising and falling across the barren vista like waves on a calm sea. In the far distance, completely dominating the horizon, were the sprawling ruins of the huge pre-dark city.
"Spread out and look for the mutie. Five yards, one on one," Ryan directed, blaster in hand. A breeze wafted over them from the desert, carrying the smell of heat and dust. Instinctively, he checked the rad counter on his shirt collar and was relieved to see the background count was normal. This wasn't a hot area.
"Not circling above us," Dean said, squinting at the overcast sky. "But it sure looks like a storm is on the way."
"Those are the wrong type of formations for rain," Mildred commented, studying the overcast sky. "They more resemble dust clouds."
"Nukes," Jak said, frowning, scratching his cheek with the muzzle of his .357 Magnum. The tinted lenses of the sunglasses made the teenager seem even paler than usual.
"Or a chem storm."
"No spoor, or bones from a kill," Ryan said, kneeling on the ground and studying the soil for tracks or prints.
"Quite right. We seem to be alone, captain, O my captain," Doc said, holstering his huge blaster. "Our uninvited guest has sought lodgings elsewhere."
"Unless it has a nest on another ledge," Krysty suggested, moving away from the tunnel to check above them. The tunnel opened near the base of a large outcropping, a mesa actually, the main column of the granite mountain had shattered into splinters and boulders from some terrible geological event.
"But with all this light, I don't think the night feeder will be out and about to bother us much." Her voice faded away, then came back strong. "Mother Gaia protect us!"
Blasters at the ready, the others quickly joined the redhead and stared in wonderment. Where huge sections of the mesa were gone, smooth sections of a dull black material could be plainly seen in the shadowy light. The material wasn't marred or scratched in any way.
"That's the exterior of the redoubt," Ryan said, rubbing his freshly shaved chin. Then he glanced about. "This whole area must have been underground before the war."
"Then it became desert, and the winds unearthed the redoubt," Mildred agreed.
"Now we know where that odd tunnel came from," Dean said grimly. "Somebody saw the base and was trying to gain access."
The elder Cawdor shook his head. "No, that was old tech that built the tunnel. Those beams were ferroconcrete. That can't be made anymore."
"Yes, sir." The boy nodded, but kept a grip on his blaster.
The sound of a starting engine shattered the early-morning quiet. The companions dropped into combat positions, with Dean crouching to fire his new blaster from a kneeling position for greater stability. A moment later, their Hummer bounced into view with J.B. behind the wheel.
"Everything okay?" he asked suspiciously, one hand strategically out of sight. "You were taking too long… Dark night! The outside of the redoubt!"
"No other ledges or caves along this face of the mesa," Ryan said, then turned to stare into the distance. "Mebbe the mutie came from the ruins."
"Sure seems a lot bigger than it did last night," Dean stated, cradling the longblaster in his arms, but making sure the muzzle wasn't pointed at anybody. He had caught hell for accidentally doing that once, and he'd never repeat the mistake.
"Seems like the buildings reach for miles," Krysty stated.
The darkness had to have masked the true size of the predark city. The outlying structures stretched in every direction, and there were rows of tall buildings downtown, some slashed on a diagonal cut from erosion, or with jagged tops from fires. But one marble edifice towered above the others, a single shining skyscraper untouched by the ravages of time or war.
"Gulliver in Lilliput," Doc observed, resting both hands on his cane, the silver lion's head peeking out between his laced fingers.
"Not Chicago," Jak said, squinting, "Miami, or Big D."
"Not any place I know. Anybody else?" Ryan asked, easing the safety on his blaster before holstering the weapon. There was a negative chorus.
"And no sign of people," Mildred said, craning her neck for a better view. "That I can see."
"We couldn't spot a wag at this range," J.B. said, retrieving a spyglass from a cushioned pouch on his belt. He extended the brass scope to its full length and closed an eye to look through it.
"Well?" Ryan asked.
"Still too far," J.B. reported, collapsing the tube. "We need binocs to see details at this range."
"Might be deserted, then," Dean said, sounding disappointed.
"Or it could have a thousand people," Krysty warned over her shoulder. "Somebody was operating the searchlights. And much as I hate killing, I sure hope they have a lot of enemies. We'll get a better price with folks who have a fight coming."
"Everybody has enemies," Ryan rationalized coldly. "We'll do fine with this lot of blasters and rockets."
"Blasters always good," Jak stated. "Heard 'bout man bought life by giving baron can opener."
"Really?" Dean asked in disbelief. He touched the Swiss army knife in his pocket. Was it that valuable?
"Believe it," Ryan said, climbing back into the Hummer and starting the engine, which caught on the first try. "You ever try to open a can of stew with just a knife or a rock?"
"Yes," Krysty said, taking her seat.
One boot resting on the back wheel, J.B. laughed and displayed a finger. "And I still have the scar."
As the rest jammed into their seats, straddling boxes and crates, Ryan studied the slope of the hillock. Off to their west was a flat section of desert, a nice long stretch of hard-packed sand. Maybe an ancient highway, or a dried riverbed.
"We'll head for that natural road," Ryan said, starting the engine again. "Should make good time."
"Others might have the same idea," Krysty cautioned, wrapping the strap of the Steyr around her forearm so it couldn't be dropped. "Best be ready for an ambush."
"Gotcha," J.B. said, straightening a kink in the ammo belt of the M-60. "Stay sharp, folks."
"An ambush. From whom?" Doc asked, sounding perturbed. "A tumbleweed, perhaps?"
"No, she's right. Those searchlights can be seen for miles," Ryan said, shifting gears and releasing the hand brake. "Could have every coldheart bastard, junker and nomad from the whole countryside down there."
"Wherever down there is," Mildred added, using a strip of cloth to tie back her long beaded plaits. The city was vaguely familiar to the woman, but that was all, nothing specific. Then again, most big cities resembled each other. Who could tell Toronto from Seattle if t
heir major landmarks were gone?
"We'll find out when the stars appear tonight," J.B. said confidently, straightening his fedora. "That cloud cover is going to break soon. I can smell it."
"We used to sled down a hill like this," Doc said softly. "All covered with snow and twinkling with ice. My wife would have hot chocolate waiting for the children and I when we came home afterward. Cold. It was so cold in Vermont that winter." His voice faded away, and he stared into the distance, reliving another life in another world.
"Hold on tight," Ryan said, dropping into low gear and starting down the slope.
The grade was steep, but the Hummer dug in and he began zigzagging to control their speed. However, they were still going faster than he liked when the Hummer bounced over a hidden gully. The companions cursed, and the supplies jumped about wildly, but none left the wag.
"Warn us next time, will you?" J.B. snapped, clinging to the M-60 with both arms, the ammo box jingling with every jolt. Mildred handed him back his dropped fedora, and he stuffed it on.
Ryan dodged another gully, then a cactus. "You want to drive instead?"
"Sure! Pass me the wheel."
At the bottom of the slope, the Hummer dipped into a ravine and rolled up gracefully onto flat land. Ryan gunned the engine and started in the direction of the crude road they had spotted from the hill.
Keeping a grip on the M-60, J.B. looked around, studying the horizon for any suspicious movements. "The landscape is bare for miles. At least nobody can sneak up on us until we reach the city."
"And if the locals won't trade, there must be some stores to loot," Mildred noted, altering her grip on the med kit. A shopping list of supplies was already forming in her mind.
"Mebbe some canned goods that haven't gone bad," Dean suggested.
"In this heat?" Jak scoffed, elbowing the lad.
"Not likely," the elder Cawdor added pointedly, watching a tumbleweed roll across the road. "Mebbe some homemade preserves in a glass jar, but nothing in a tin can."
