Axler, James - Deathlands 60 - Destiny's Truth

by Destiny's Truth [lit]

  "I think I may have," Doc said quietly. "I think we should talk outside."

  Hector agreed, and led them to his living quarters. It was a single-room shack, untidy and speaking of someone who spent little time there other than to sleep. He offered them seating, and all sat except Doc, who stayed upright—almost, it seemed, as an expression of his agitation.

  "Ideas, Doc," Mildred said simply.

  "I cannot be sure," the old man began, pausing before continuing. "I saw something like it once, but I was given to understand that it had been eradicated by the whitecoats before the nukecaust."

  "You're thinking on similar lines, then," Mildred confirmed.

  Doc raised an astonished eyebrow. "It was during my youth that it was finally killed off around the world. Trouble is, they kept some strains to experiment on—"

  "Typical whitecoat arrogance," Doc thundered.

  "I'll agree with that," Mildred muttered. "Problem is, it looks like a variant strain. And we don't have a vaccine, or the time and facilities to search for one."

  "Then we have no paddle, and are against the fecal tide, as it were," Tanner said.

  " 'Scuse me," Hector interrupted, "but you people should remember that I don't have the faintest idea what the hell you're talking about."

  "Me, neither," Krysty added sardonically.

  For a moment, Mildred and Doc just stared at them, then Mildred said, "Of course, you'd have no idea. It was way before your time."

  "What do you mean?" Hector was now beginning to get agitated by what seemed to be nothing more than riddles.

  "No time to explain," Mildred said simply. "You'll just have to believe us."

  Hector shrugged. "I've little choice, have I? I've got no idea what that is—" he gestured to the med building "—and you have."

  Mildred nodded. "Okay. Just trust us on this. Before the nukecaust, there was a disease that wiped out vast populations. It was a virus that was transmitted through contact, and it had symptoms very similar to these. They managed to eradicate it, and I've never heard of anything quite like it occurring during our travels. But this…this looks very like it. It's fast, nasty and fatal."

  "What can we do about it?" Krysty asked.

  "Without a vaccine or antidote, and not knowing anyway if this strain has become mutie in any way…"

  Mildred shook her head. "There isn't anything that we can do."

  "Fuck! What is this thing?" Hector asked, a mixture of fear and helplessness grabbing at him.

  Doc spoke quietly. "They used to call it smallpox."

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, while Mildred, Doc and Krysty set to work trying to contain the outbreak of the disease and keep it confined—and also trying to avoid spreading panic—Dean and Jak set to work on the small patches of cultivated scrub that were on the outskirts of the ville.

  The stunted vegetables and fruits that were grown there were stored and dried as reserve stock, and also used to ferment the alcohol that was sold in the ville's bars. The rich loam should have yielded strong, healthy crops, but somehow there had been a genetic mutation to all the crops in the area, and the farming was hard.

  It was the time of year when the soil had to be tilled and the next year's crop sown. It was hard work. The farm crew had allotted Jak and Dean a horse and plow, along with the seed that needed to be sown along the trenches. There was little chance for them to interact or get to know their fellow workers, as only a handful of the ville's inhabitants worked on the farmland, and those that did were spread about the fields, too far apart to converse.

  So it was down to the albino and the young Cawdor to prove themselves by work.

  "This not good," Jak remarked, patting the bony flanks of the horse they had been given. The creature looked old, and although not starved, it seemed to be all bone and little muscle. The pitted and scarred, time-rusted plow that they had to attach to the beast seemed too heavy for it to manage.

  Dean looked at the expanse of field they had to till.

  "Well, we've got to get it done, Jak," he said simply. "So we'll just have to work out a way."

  They harnessed the horse, and Jak went to the head and began to lead.

  The plow stuck in the rich, thick soil. It began to turn, but was so damp and firm that the plow became bogged down, stuck in the grip of the earth. Jak whispered in the horse's ear, and the creature began to respond, pulling harder against the resistance of the earth. Dean followed behind, scattering the seed into the earth before it began to close again.

  "Hot pipe!" he whispered to himself, then called to Jak to join him. When the albino left the horse and arrived at his side, Dean indicated the closing earth, and the level earth to their rear where there should have been a trench. "Have you ever seen anything like that?" he said.

  The albino shook his head. "Like earth living. No wonder horse find it hard."

  "Yeah," Dean agreed, "and I don't know about you, but I don't reckon that it'll get the whole field done."

  Jak looked at the already tired and weak beast, then at the expanse of field they hadn't yet covered. He shook his head.

  "Only one way," he said simply.

  And so the farmhands in neighboring fields, who had deliberately given the young men the weakest of the beasts as a trial, stopped and watched in amazement as Jak harnessed himself to the plow alongside the horse, and began to help drag it across the field, cutting a furrow that Dean followed, sewing the seeds as he went.

  About halfway across the field, the two young men changed places to spread the work. Jak followed the plow as Dean helped to pull.

  When they had finished the field, they found that the farmhands from the neighboring fields had come across to watch them. Dean unharnessed himself and fixed them with a glare.

  "Next time you want to palm us off with a dud, we'll break your balls," he said softly.

  There was silence for a moment, until one of the farmhands burst into laughter.

  "Everyone gets the old nag," he said. "Just means you've become one of us."

  "All with hurting back?" Jak asked.

  Dean wasn't sure if the albino—deadpan as always—had been joking or serious, but it had the desired result. They were surrounded by farmhands, clapping them on the supposedly aching backs in displays of camaraderie.

  They had proved themselves to their new compatriots, which was always a vital part of survival in the Deathlands.

  "WE AIN'T HAD MUCH in the way of trouble down here for a while. No big convoys going through. Kinda prefer it quiet, but then no one's getting any jack. I suppose you take your choice over which is best, right?"

  The fat sec man they knew as Yardie scratched his balls and hitched up his pants, waiting for an answer.

  "Sure," Ryan answered simply, not wanting to start the man off on another ramble.

  The one-eyed man and J.B. had been assigned to assist the bar sec on their nightly shift. The bar sec was a group of heavily armed sec men who also had unarmed combat skills and were used to police the bars and gaudies frequented by the trading convoys. Their task was to stop trouble without it escalating, and not to alienate the traders by wrecking their crews—otherwise they may not pass through again.

  With no convoys in town at present, it had been quiet for the past few nights, and the fat man who was sec chief for the area had been telling them stories about the main drag—stories in which he was mostly the hero.

  "Trouble is, all we get are horny men who just want to hit on any woman. They can do most what they like to the gaudies sluts, but when they get it wrong… See, there's this weird bunch of women live somewhere hereabouts—never can trail 'em—and when they come in to trade, they always get hit on. Tiny, no clothes…but real mean. I like to look after them, 'cause they shouldn't be treated like that. Had to chill a couple of mechanics once—just the one shot, clean through both of 'em. But then again, I seen one of 'em—red-haired thing that I'd crush if I fucked her— take out four men using nothing other than one of those big knife things like yo
u've got."

  Yardie indicated the panga that Ryan had strapped to his thigh, and the one-eyed man shot a glance at J.B. Could it be possible? The description sounded uncannily like Gloria and the Gate tribe. The Armorer's eyebrows shot up, but before he had a chance to say anything, both his attention and Ryan's were taken by a sudden outbreak in one of the bars.

  All three men were standing on the boardwalk outside the bar, and through the open door came the sounds of an argument, followed by a staccato burst of blasterfire.

  "Three blasters," J.B. said quickly. "Small caliber handblasters."

  Ryan nodded. "Okay, let's take them."

  Almost glad of the opportunity to get away from the fat man, who was still standing, staring blankly at J.B.'s ability to determine the blasterfire, both Ryan and the Armorer were through the open doorway, opting to unsheathe their knives rather than use blasters.

  Inside, the room was well lit. Most of the clientele had taken cover, and two men stood at each end of the bar, holding blasters. A third, with his back to the door, was slumping to the ground from a slug that had hit him in the stomach, blood dripping onto the floor.

  Keeping low, both J.B. and Ryan exchanged a look, and by the subtlest of indications chose their prey.

  Moving around the tables, J.B. circled his man, who was torn between turning to this new threat or taking out the opponent with the blaster. His indecision cost him both targets. J.B. leaped onto a chair and used it to launch himself at the man. The Armorer's Tekna knife speared through his blaster hand, momentum taking it down and pinning it to the bar. A scream of pain was killed in his throat by a chop across the windpipe from the Armorer's free hand. The man slumped to the floor.

  Ryan, meanwhile, had come to his man from the side. His blaster-wielding opponent had no doubt about whom to fire on. He swiveled and took aim at the one-eyed man, who dived under the line of fire and felt the bullet pluck at his shirt as he reached his opponent. Hitting the man in the solar plexus with his full weight, Ryan drove him into the edge of the bar and heard two of the man's ribs crack under the pressure. His scream was high 5pitched and ceased as the one-eyed man brought the hilt of the panga down on his head, hitting him on the temple.

  "What the—?" Yardie stammered as he entered the bar, blaster drawn.

  "Sorry. What were you saying?" Ryan asked him, unable to keep a twisting smile from his face at the sight of the fat man's expression.

  Chapter Three

  "Must do something—find them now, before too late!"

  Jak paced up and down the length of the shack that had been given to the companions as a home while they were in Crossroads. He was agitated and upset, and it was obvious to Ryan that the albino wanted to move as soon as possible in search of the Gate.

  "We have to wait, at least for a short while," Ryan stated.

  Jak stopped and looked at him, red eyes burning bright in his white, scarred visage.

  "Why?"

  "Because the others know nothing of this as yet, and we need to know what they say, for one." Which was true. Jak and Dean had returned from their day's work in the fields when Ryan and J.B. had come off their sec shift and had told the albino about what they had been told by Yardie—albeit without his realizing the importance of one of his boastful stories.

  Given the almost certain fact that the fat sec man had described the Gate, and the outbreak of the pox disease that Mildred, Krysty and Doc had been working on, matters seemed to be conspiring to confirm the veracity of Jak's mat-trans vision.

  "Dad's right," Dean interjected. "It's not something I want to think about—and I know you don't— but we need to know more about the disease they might have before we go looking. Especially if it makes the Gate as wild as Gloria was in your dream."

  Jak paused and thought about that. All his life he had acted on instinct, but since his time with the companions had begun, he had learned the value of stopping to give a moment's thought, and how much time and triple-red danger it could save.

  "Okay," he said finally, "wait and see what they say."

  He sat down, brooding, and what followed seemed to be the lengthiest amount of time any of them had ever had to wait for anyone or anything. Eventually, Mildred, Krysty and Doc returned from the makeshift hospital they had been manning, leaving Hector and a couple of ville women to help him through the night shift.

  "I hoped I would never have to see such things again, despite the horrors I have witnessed during my time here," Doc said wearily as he sat stiff and slow on the edge of his bed. He looked exhausted, as did the others.

  "It's the fact that there seems to be nothing that we can do. That's the worst," Krysty added.

  "There isn't," Mildred said softly. She, too, was exhausted, but not so tired that she didn't look sharply at Jak, sensing the atmosphere of tension in the shack. "What is it?" she asked him directly. When he failed to answer, she turned her attention to J.B. "John? What's happened?"

  "Something that may have a bearing on what's going on here," the Armorer replied. And in a few short words, he outlined to the recently arrived companions what had occurred earlier in the evening.

  "If that's true," Mildred said after he had finished, "then Jak's right. We should get after them as soon as possible. Not just because it would be good to see them, but because they may have something that tells us where this bastard disease has come from and what we can do about it."

  Ryan agreed. "That makes a lot of sense, but we need to find out, at least roughly, where the hell they could be camped. We need to head in the right direction, after all."

  It wasn't only true, but it broke the tension and caused a ripple of laughter. Certainly, the Gate had defended its position so well that their tribe's exact whereabouts was unknown.

  The only one of the companions not laughing was Doc. He sat perfectly still, staring at the floor. It was only as the laughter died that he finally spoke. "There is one thing that we all seem to be overlooking," he said softly.

  Mildred felt a shiver run down her spine at his tone of voice. "What?"

  Doc looked her in the eye. "It's more than a trifling coincidence, wouldn't you say, that both ourselves and the Gate find it relatively easy to arrive in the same place, given that the mat-trans chambers were supposed to send us to random destinations? Not so random, would you not think?"

  "You mean the comp settings didn't change that much?" Dean queried, and when Doc agreed, the young Cawdor exclaimed, "Hot pipe! Then that could mean that they didn't vary that much from the original settings!"

  Doc nodded slowly. "And do you know what that could mean?"

  Ryan answered before Dean. "It could mean that the Illuminated Ones are nearby."

  "Exactly. And who better than a bunch of accursed whitecoat spawn to unleash such a vile disease, which was supposed to have vanished a long time ago?"

  There was silence while everyone digested the import of this notion. Finally, Ryan spoke.

  "If the Illuminated Ones are near, then we have two aims. First, we need to find the Gate to see if they're infected. Second, we need to track down the redoubt where those scum suckers are holed up and finish what we started. In that order. But before we do that, we need to try and find out as much as possible for the people here."

  The one-eyed man turned to Mildred. "How much time do we have?"

  She shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Hard to say for sure, but certainly not long. The pox seems to run its course in about three weeks. We had the first two dead tonight. Their bodies seemed to be convulsed with muscle spasms, and they were running temperatures that shouldn't be possible." She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the picture in her mind. "The pox marks get worse toward the end, running alive and open. It's impossible to make them comfortable, I'd say. It must be a horrible way to die."

  "And there is no cure," Doc prompted. "We could already be incubating. I agree with you, my dear Ryan, that we cannot rush into this. But be cautioned that we are on a finite time scale."

&nb
sp; "He's right," Mildred agreed. "The clock is ticking…"

  THE NEXT DAY, while they were in the med building, Mildred bided her time before asking. It had been a difficult night for Hector, and two more of the initial contractees had bought the farm during his spell on duty. The exhausted ville healer, who had no ideas on how to combat the disease, or even to alleviate the suffering he could see in front of his eyes, had retired to his shack to try to get some rest. The ville women who had assisted him had returned to their homes, sworn to secrecy. Chances were, they were too scared by what they had seen to raise the subject.

  For a while Mildred, Krysty and Doc had been on their own in the med building, tending as best as possible to those who were ill. There were three new cases, all with the mildest of blisters and a high temperature. A casual observer would have put it down to chicken pox, and none was more surprised than the patients themselves when they had been detained.

  However, the mounting problem was causing the conscientious ville healer acute anxiety, and it was only a few hours before he returned to the fray.

  "You'll make yourself ill if you don't rest," Mildred said when he first returned.

  He gave her a crooked grin. "Chances are I'll get ill anyway, being around here all the time."

  "Fair point," Mildred agreed, allowing a silence to fall. On the far side of the med building, Krysty and Doc were arguing about the contents of a poultice that the red-haired woman wanted to use. Doc, despite his distrust of whitecoats, had an almost religious faith in the use of plundered medical supplies, and was arguing his corner while Krysty attempted to use her herbal skills, learned from Mother Sonja in her home ville of Harmony. From the corner of her eye, Mildred noticed Hector deriving some amusement from the exchange between the two, and she judged that now was the moment for her to ask.

  "Hector," she began in a tone that immediately made him look up, "I want to ask you something. We heard something about a tribe that camps near here and keeps itself to itself."