Zero City

by James Axler

  Shuffling along, talking to nobody, the pair reached the main market square and stopped. Here hundreds of people were exchanging items, buying vegetables or haggling over the cost of rat poison. Set between a greenhouse and a barracks, across from a dentist, was a gaudy house. Topless women leaned out the second-floor balcony, dangling the goods for sale.

  The ville was thriving with activity. Tables galore in the market square were piled with salvaged tools, scrap wire, mismatched shoes and even a few books. A plump woman with a babe in tow haggled prices with a merchant and came away with a mason jar to be used for canning food. She paid for it with a small loaf of fresh bread from the basket on her arm.

  "But no weapons," Ryan said, adjusting his scarf to hide his eye patch. "Not even knives." More than a few folks had similar wrappings, and once again Ryan wondered where they were.

  "No butchers, either. Baron keeps a taut ship," Krysty said quietly. A hood covered her head to hide her unusual hair. There was a faint reddish streak across her cheek where the bullet had grazed her face the previous night, but it was already fading. She always healed fast.

  The crowd surged from an influx of people coming out of a steaming laundry, and Ryan got bumped hard from behind. Instantly, his hands flew to check his weapons, and stopped.

  "Sorry," he muttered, hurrying away. He couldn't afford to draw attention to himself. They were here to find that med kit and leave. Nothing more. Besides, this seemed to be the nicest ville he'd ever seen since his own barony back in Virginia.

  "Hey!"

  Ryan turned, his hand resting on the handle of the panga inside his shirt. Hopefully, it appeared as if he were merely scratching an itch. But the stranger's throat was one fast step away from eternal silence.

  "Yeah?" Ryan asked bluntly.

  "Nice boots," the big man said, displaying a mouthful of broken teeth. His hands were covered with the fine scars of brawling, his ears lumpy from badly thrown punches. But he stood on the balls of his feet, not the flat soles. This was a professional fighter, not some alleyway thug. Krysty eased herself away from the two and started to edge behind the newcomer.

  "Yeah?" Ryan said noncommittally.

  The thug stepped closer. "I could use a pair like those, and they're in my size."

  Ryan knew where this was going. No chance of him backing out, and he couldn't just chill the man. He'd have to do this the hard way. Bending his fingers at the knuckles, Ryan kept his hand flat and started forward when he froze motionless.

  Over the man's shoulder, Ryan could dimly see minuscule flashes of light from inside the shadows of the skyscraper. A firefight was raging on the top floor, and the strobing muzzle-flashes could only be autofire blasters. The ville sec men he'd seen had only bolt-action rifles and revolvers. And they certainly would have used autofire blasters the previous night. Which meant it was J.B. and his Uzi, or whoever was using the HK G-12.

  "Hey, I'm talking wid you!" the man stated gruffly, grabbing Ryan by the shoulder and spinning him. "Now gimme the boots, punk!"

  Ryan bent over as if to comply, then stood fast and rammed his fingertips straight into the man's throat. Gasping for air, the thug backed away. Swinging a boot, Ryan caught the man between the legs. Breath exploded from the thug, and as he bent over in pain, the one-eyed man raised his knee to catch him on the way down. The impact straightened out the thug, almost flipping him over. Arms flailing, he hit the ground like wet newspaper and lay there, bleeding from the ruin of his face.

  Some gasps rose from the crowd nearby, but most kept moving, unwilling to become embroiled in a fight that wasn't their concern. Some shopkeepers closed their doors, and a few folk turned into alleys to avoid the clear space that had magically appeared around the combatants.

  "What's going on here?" a man demanded, pushing a path through the milling throng. The man was big and muscular, wearing good clothes, with a revolver holstered on his hip, a stout club in his grip and a red band of cloth on his arm marked with a white circle and a big blue letter A.

  But all of the identifying items of a sec man were unnecessary. As soon as he had spoken, Ryan knew it was a guard from his attitude toward the crowd. They weren't people to serve or assist, but a problem the man had to handle quietly before he could get back to his interrupted drinking.

  "All right, gleeb," he barked, fixing Ryan with a menacing stare. "Did you attack this man? We got laws about fighting near the greenhouses. You bust a pane of clear glass, and it's fifty strokes of the whip."

  Aside from an acknowledging grunt, Ryan didn't reply, calculating his chances of making a break into the open doorway of the blacksmith shop. Once out of sight and over the bellows, he could ace the sec man and find someplace to hide. He noticed that Krysty had already gone, blending into the crowd. They had agreed upon that. If one got caught, the other stayed free to finish the job. The clock was ticking on Dean, and minutes counted.

  Then four more sec men converged on the sleeping giant, and Ryan knew there was no escape. He'd have to talk his way out of this mess. A difficult matter when he didn't even know the name of the ville or the baron who ruled there.

  "Trouble?" asked the leader of the new group, a hand resting on the butt of his blaster. The others fanned out behind him to establish a greater presence of authority.

  "Yeah, I think so," the first guard murmured.

  Ryan noted that several shops had closed their doors, and folks were avoiding this section of the street. He had a gren, and wondered how best to use it—blow up a greenhouse or try to kill as many sec men as he could. Both had their downside.

  "Hey, Roberto!" called out a thin man eating an apple as he walked over from the market square.

  The first guard scowled for a moment, then relaxed slightly. "Hey, Dawson. See what happened?"

  "Sure. Crusher tried to roust the new guy," Dawson said, munching contentedly. "Bad mistake."

  "Didn't think anybody could take Crusher but the hunchback," said one of the other guards.

  Already the tension was starting to diminish, and Ryan felt the muscles in his arms unkink. Somebody had vouched for him, and as far as the sec men were concerned, the matter was already over.

  "Did he, now? Fair enough, then. You want to kick him some more while he's down?" Roberto asked, still brandishing his club. "Somebody attacks you for no reason, you get to pound them. It's a law we got to discourage brawling."

  "Nah, he ain't going to bother me none again," Ryan said.

  The second group of sec men seemed satisfied, and moved on, but one of the men stared hard at Ryan before leaving, as if trying to memorize his features, or worse, recall them.

  Dawson finished the apple, then tucked it into a pocket. "Pretty good with your fists," he acknowledged. "Got an assignment yet from Leonard?"

  "Tomorrow. He was busy," Ryan risked saying. Then on impulse, he threw back his cowl as if having nothing to hide.

  Roberto laughed. "Yeah, the kid tries to run the whole ville. But then, he'll be baron when Strichland dies."

  "Seems like an okay guy."

  Tapping the wooden club against his leg, Roberto frowned. "Don't let that smiling face fool you, newbie. The baron would toss his own mother into the Machine."

  "Ain't that the truth," Dawson added, his face as somber as the tone of his voice.

  There was that word again. Ryan filed that phrase away, along with the sound of real fear in the guard's voice. "Meant Leonard."

  "Oh, yeah, he's okay. Pretty good in a fight, too. And smart. He's the one who thought of the greenhouses. We call him the Brain in the barracks." The club was brandished. "But you didn't hear that from me."

  "Hear what?" Ryan asked blandly.

  A slow smile. "Quick. You're very quick. What's your name?"

  "Finnegan," Ryan replied, recalling an old friend who no longer walked the Deathlands. "Friends call me Finn."

  Dawson licked his sticky fingers clean. "Any good with a blaster?"

  "Some."

  "Yeah?" Roberto
scratched his head with the club. "Know how to turn a regular lead bullet into a dumdum?"

  "Fucking carefully," Ryan stated honestly.

  Both men laughed. "You'll do, Finn," Dawson said, smiling. "After your stint in the muck, try for security. We always need tough guys." He glanced at the supine form in the sand. "And I think you'll fit right in."

  "Thanks."

  "Better than weeding," Roberto added, as he turned and strolled away. "Or wall duty."

  "Yar, anything is better than that. Well, see ya later, Finn."

  "Later," Ryan agreed.

  Having said their piece and ascertained there were no problems, the sec men went back to their business, and the crowds flowed around Ryan again. The fight was over, and the disturbance in their ville had been settled. Life went on again.

  Some kids darted out from the legs of the crowd and started going through Crusher's pocket, and Roberto halfheartedly chased them away.

  Retreating to the safety of the market square, Ryan looked for Krysty, but she was nowhere to be seen. Finding a gap between some of the buildings, he next studied the distant skyscraper. But without binocs, he couldn't see any details and nothing seemed to be happening anymore. The fight either was over, or it had gone hand to hand. The muties! The building had to be their nest. Ryan flexed his hands, then stuffed them into his pockets and strolled away. There was absolutely nothing he could do to help from where he was. He had to concentrate on the task at hand, get the med kit and get back. Until he got across the river, his friends were on their own.

  From out of the cloudy sky, a sting-wing darted toward the mob of people. A blaster boomed, and the dead mutie tumbled to the ground out of sight. Rooftop guards, Ryan realized. This ville was very well protected, and by damn good shots, too. Suddenly, he was glad he decided to talk his way out of the problem.

  Moving toward an eatery, Ryan saw folks pay for bowls of vegetable stew with local jack, big predark silver coins stamped with a crude letter A, just like the armband of the guards. Someone had to have shaved off the original embossing and hand-pounded on the new face. He'd seen it done many times. Made sense. The stuff couldn't be duplicated anymore, and wouldn't wear out like the old paper stuff.

  Taking a seat at an empty table made from an industrial cable spool tipped over on its side, Ryan started to think about how to find the baron's private vault. But the smell coming from the wood-burning stove was shifting his attention. It had been too long since he'd had a good night's sleep, so food was important. Ideas would come with a full belly.

  "What'll it be?" a barmaid asked, wiping the table with a damp rag. She wore a very loose dress with a mechanic's apron tied around her trim waist.

  The top didn't button closed very well, and a lot of her was viewable. Ryan guessed that not only food was sold here. "What do you have?"

  "Veggie stew, cold roasted potatoes and some green beer that won't make you puke much."

  "Any bread?"

  She looked at him for the first time. "Sure. All you want. That's free from the baron. You new here?"

  Damn, he walked into that one. "Stew," he said. Then took out a single round from his shirt. "This should cover it."

  The woman gasped and swept the bullet off the table and into a pocket of the apron. "Are you insane?" she hissed, leaning closer. "No, that's right. You're new here, right? Thought so. Guards didn't search you very well. We ain't allowed to have blasters or ammo. Only the baron and his troops."

  That was standard for most villes. But if the baron had all the blasters, why was he so nice to the civvies? Mebbe he had blasters, but little ammo. Might be a bargaining chip there.

  Resting the tray on a round hip, the barmaid, leered suggestively. "This'll get you meat in the stew, or a romp with me. I'm Dolly."

  "Finn. Thanks, but I just got laid," he lied. "Only want some food."

  "Suit yourself." The barmaid eyed him up and down. "But if you change your mind, we can use the back room here. No charge, stud."

  "What about some info?" Ryan said, laying his hand on the table and pushing forward another 9 mm round.

  Dolly licked her lips while eying his hand. "What do you want to know? If it's jolt you're looking for, we don't got none. Baron forbids all drugs. Says it slows us down building greenhouses."

  "Fifty strokes?" he asked.

  She blanched. "You get caught with jolt, you go to the Machine."

  There was that phrase again. It had to be some sort of torture device. Probably the rack. "What does he care if we have fun?"

  "He's got the blasters," the woman said. "Besides, he's the best baron we've ever had. And I've lived through four of them." She grabbed her breasts and jiggled them. "Tits like these keep you alive, as long as they plump. The last one tried to make rules about everything, including fucking. His own sec men turned on him and made their leader baron."

  Dolly jerked a thumb. "Put up the gaudy house right off. No more rape in the back streets at night. Guards go for free, but everybody else pays. Fair, I guess. Them's the ones fighting those winged devils. Baron Strichland is tough, ten lashes for lying to a sec man. Twenty for stealing, fifty for rape or stealing food. And it's the Machine if you damage a greenhouse."

  Ryan merely grunted and waited for her to continue. Most folks talked to a serving girl, not with them. Shut up and listen, and they were always a mine of data. She bent over the table, her breasts almost spilling out, so he patted her ass and stroked her partially exposed leg.

  "You sure about the back room?" Dolly asked, sounding wistful. She liked this one; he was cleaner than most, and darkly handsome in a frightening way. The eye patch didn't bother her; she bet the other guy had come out a lot worse in that fight.

  "Would if I could." He smiled politely. "Tomorrow, for sure."

  A pro, Dolly accepted the rebuff. "So what do you want to know?"

  "I'm looking for somebody," Ryan said, tucking the live bullet into her apron. "A woman called Patrica."

  "Fat Pat? Sure. What you want with her?"

  Ryan stared at the woman.

  Her smile faded like ice in the sun. "Right. Not my business. She's the madam of the gaudy house down the street. Anything else?"

  "Stew," he said, adjusting his hood to hide his features once more.

  She shrugged, checked her pocket and walked away, hips expertly swinging to avoid bumping the tables.

  Watching the crowds stream by in an endless procession, Ryan started to feel better about the task at hand. They were in the ville, and he knew who had the med kit. Now all he had to do was get hold of this Patrica, get an audience with the baron and find the vault. The rest would be simple stealing. What could he offer to sell? Mebbe where the muties nested? That might work.

  The food arrived in a not overly clean bowl with a big chip in the side and a plastic spoon that had seen better days. But the stew was hot, and Ryan wolfed it down as if it were his last meal. He was nearly done when a gong began to sound, slow and steady. The man lowered his spoon. Another mutie attack? Couldn't be; this was daytime. But everybody in sight stopped whatever they were doing and started to walk down the main street of the ville, heading in the same direction. Dolly and the sec men included.

  Leaving his food, Ryan mingled with the crowds, keeping an eye out for Krysty. Usually, her fiery red hair would be an easy find amid the collection of brunettes and blondes, but this day she was wearing a hood.

  A fortified building of some sort stood at the head of a large courtyard, and the crowd was forming a half circle in front of the structure. On a wooden platform stood a redheaded man in embroidered military fatigues, and a few more folks less ornately dressed. Could be the baron and his flunkies, Ryan realized. Better and better. There were sec men on the ground behind a sandbag wall, holding very clean blasters, but they had a relaxed appearance, as if this were nothing unusual.

  Then the man on stage lifted the med kit into view, and Ryan had to stop himself from rushing the guards.

  There it was, o
nly a hundred yards way. Ryan grimly swore it wasn't going to leave his sight again.

  "Will you look at that, a predark medical bag. Bastard thing must be worth a ville itself," muttered a dirty-faced bald man dressed in tattered clothing.

  "More," a tiny woman agreed, her cascade of golden hair reaching to her knees. The luxurious tresses were braided into a thick ponytail. "Wonder what's going on?"

  "Good morning, citizens of Alphaville," the baron boomed, the med kit dangling by a strap in his hand. "First off, I want to tell you that the traitor who broke the windows of greenhouse fourteen has been caught and dealt with."

  A murmur swept through the crowd.

  "I prayed the poor bastard would escape," said a giant in a leather apron. He was holding a massive hammer and reeked of sweat and hot iron.

  "Nobody escapes Alphaville," said a tiny rat-faced man wearily.

  When the noises died, Baron Strichland continued, "The plants have been saved, the soil replenished and there will still be enough food to last us through the long dark winter."

  Applause broke out from the attendees.

  "That's something," a dour old woman snorted, her hands as gnarled as tree roots. She stank of lye and soap, and a hand-carved clothespin jutted from a skirt pocket.

  "And on a more positive note, we have a new addition to our ville, Brian and Tasha." The baron gestured to the couple and they dutifully stepped forward. Ryan recognized them as the folks chased by the wolves the previous day. The man seemed thinner, more haggard, his face a stone mask. The woman was red eyed and sniffling, the baby cradled in her arms. Their daughter wasn't in sight.

  "Unfortunately, their daughter Lucia was killed by the muties last night," the baron said sadly. "So this is a time of joy and sadness. Joy, that we have two more citizens, and sadness at their terrible loss."

  "Must have been a redhead," the rat-faced man muttered, and many others growled agreement.

  "It's awful," Ryan said, hoping to prompt more information.