Axler, James - Deathlands 64 - Bloodfire

by Bloodfire [lit]

  "We do a mercy killing and shoot them in the back of the head," Doc rumbled from inside his white plastic cocoon. "Yes, we do understand, madam, and may God help us all."

  Stepping down onto the flooded floor, Ryan braced himself for a rush of pain, but the tough U.S. Army combat boots resisted the pool of acid for the moment. How long they would was another matter entirely.

  However, neither Krysty nor Doc wore the military garb, and precious seconds were spent while they lashed the last of the plastic curtains around their leather boots as additional protection. If the group hadn't taken spare curtains to make tents, they would be in a nuke load of trouble right now, even more so than they already were. He could carry Krysty, but who could have hauled the tall Doc Tanner around to keep him off the lethal ground?

  "Everybody ready?" Ryan asked, going to the rear door and grabbing the latch. Just outside, he could hear the rain coming down in sheets now, wave after wave of death from the sky as every bit as deadly as the ancient nukes. "Okay, keep your head down and walk straight ahead! Let's move!"

  As Ryan pushed open the door, the rain came howling in, smacking against the plastic wrappings in fat yellow drops. Suddenly, Ryan understood why the Core had been wrapped in thick bandages from head to foot. Clever bastards.

  Using an M-16 to hold the door wide open, Ryan stepped onto the soggy ground, his boots slipping about in the salty mud. Tucking away his blaster, he took Krysty by the hand, and then she did the same to Doc, and so on. Now supporting one another, the companions moved as a single unit across the killing field as another missile streaked by so close overhead their plastic coverings shook from the fiery wash.

  Dragging their boots to keep from splashing in the downpour, the companions headed directly for the lee of the closest dune, the slope offering some minor degree of protection from the rain, and the elevated ground giving blessed relief from the deadly puddles. However, every breath was painful from the moisture in the air stinging their flesh and eyes. As they trundled through the rumbling hellstorm, they saw the aced riders of the smashed motorcycles dissolving, the dark matter runoff flowing over the edge of the cliff like ghastly sewage.

  Nearing the dune, Ryan bent over to grab something from a portion of a bike not yet submerged when another streak of light split the rain and this time there sounded a metallic detonation, the concussion slamming them hard and threatening to tear away their plastic sheets.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rushing toward the cliff, Gaza felt a wave of relief when the anchored cable came in sight, but scanning above he couldn't spot Allison on the cliff above. Where the nuking hell was the feeb slut? What were they supposed to do, climb the fucking hundred feet of greased steel using their hands?

  Moments later, Kathleen arrived, panting from the exertion of carrying the heavy flamethrower. Quizzically, she tilted her head at the man and looked up the cliff.

  Grabbing the cable, Gaza gave it a hard tug, waited and tugged again using even more strength, but there was no reply. Damn bitch! Doomie or not, he'd whip her for this unpardonable lapse!

  Then there came the distant sound of sizzling, and both the man and woman reacted in horror. The desert dwellers knew that only one thing made that noise. But the rainy season was weeks away!

  Gaza started to reach for the cable, then lowered his glove and turned. "Back into the ruins!" he ordered. "Now, woman!"

  But Kathleen was already started for the nearest building, a windowless ruin partially collapsed, but still several stories tall.

  "Forget those!" the baron snapped, pulling her in a new direction. "We could get burned alive if the fires arrive. Back to the convoy!"

  Nodding in compliance, the woman followed her husband through the maze of debris and back into the streets. As they headed for the APC, everywhere around them the birds were flying away frantically, seeking refuge inside the shadowy preDark structures. The millipedes were already gone from sight, but the noises from the storm sewers told of fresh fighting in the subterranean depths.

  Running directly over the partially consumed deaders on the pavement, Gaza blew away a pair of vultures squabbling over a desiccated infant to clear a path to the park once more.

  The area around the ancient mil wags was clear, and Kathleen felt a surge of hope. If the rear doors and top hatch of the APC could be tightly closed, they would be able to safely ride out the storm, and afterward there wouldn't be any stickies or millipedes left alive in the city. She only hoped that Allison would be okay left alone to face the Trader. But the first wife was extremely smart, and Kathleen had supreme confidence that the elder blonde would survive to rejoin them after the rains had gone.

  Yanking open the rear door, Gaza cursed to see a stickie standing inside the wag, only its outline betraying the presence of the tan colored mutie that perfectly matched the paint job on the inside of the LAV 25. Then the shadows on the walls moved, betraying the presence of more of the muties.

  Slamming the door shut on a reaching hand, Gaza shoved his shoulder against the metal and the limb was severed. Strident hooting sounded from inside the wag as the hand dropped to the pavement, its suckers opening and closing like tiny mouths.

  Unlimbering the flamethrower, Kathleen ignited the preburner, a tiny blue flame hissing steadily inside the vented main barrel. Then she assumed a stance directly before the doors, and Gaza yanked them open again, taking refuge behind the metal portal.

  A roaring lance of flame shot out from the weapon to fill the wag completely, reddish tongues writhing out of the ports and vents. Covered with fire, the creatures inside shrieked and dashed madly about, hitting the walls in their death convulsions.

  As Kathleen cut the flow of condensed fuel, Gaza backed away and pushed her toward the imposing bulk of the tank. They had escaped the stickies, but lost the APC in the process. Damn the luck! As he ran, Gaza found his shoulders were tense, braced for the first wet impact of an acid drop.

  Reaching the titanic machine, the baron checked underneath but saw no danger. Placing a boot on the treads, Gaza boosted himself onto the huge vehicle, then gave his wife a hand upward. At the rear of the war wag, there was a gap in the armored skirt hanging around the chassis to protect the treads and wheels, almost as if it were specifically there to assist entry. And the treads themselves were odd, each individual piece coated with hard rubber, instead of the bar steel he would have expected. Protection to not damage the civie street? Possible.

  Thunder and lightning crashed the turbulent sky as they headed for the turret, and as Gaza walked around the main cannon, a brick colored stickie charged from the nearby ruins and grabbed the man by a boot, its body rippling to become a matching shiny black. Snarling in revulsion, Gaza tried to jerk free, but the mutie was firmly attached, so he lowered his M-16 and triggered a long stream of hardball ammo into its sexless chest. Wildly, the stickie jerked about from the barrage of rounds, but didn't let go, and as the clip emptied, it weaved drunkenly, still on its feet and the puckered holes in its features already starting to close.

  Squeezing past her husband, Kathleen pressed the vented barrel of flamethrower onto the hand of the thing, the blue flame of the preburner searing the glutinous flesh. Hooting in pain, the stickie released the man and Gaza gave it another burst, driving the mutie backward until it was far enough away. Now Kathleen triggered the pressurized fuel and unleashed a one-second spray into its misshapen face. Its head a ball of fire, the stickie stumbled away, waving both arms helplessly as the norms clambered on top of the turret to look down inside the open hatch of the great machine.

  At the bottom of the short ladder, Gaza could see the interior of the tank was well lit, the dull red glow of ancient electric lights making the inside of the wag seem as if it were the belly of some great beast. Dropping the spent clip and reloading, Gaza entered the machine, watching the walls and floors for the slightest indication of movement.

  The interior of the tank was like nothing Gaza had ever seen. The walls were painted a soo
thing white, and controls were everywhere, hanging in clusters, filling curved banks along the ceiling and three walls. The rear wall was a veined blast door, sealing off the store of shells for the huge 120 mm cannon.

  Yet in spite of its huge size, the war wag seemed to be built for only four people, a driver, a loader, a gunner and the boss. Those were the only chairs, with nothing more for sec men or passengers to use in transit.

  As Kathleen joined him in the war wag, the blue flame of the preburner brightly lit the interior, and it was clear that they were alone.

  "Save the juice," he ordered gruffly.

  Uneasily, Kathleen cut the flame, the metal of the barrel immediately ticking as it started to cool.

  Going to the turret, the baron swung down the hatch with a bang so loud it hurt his eardrums. Twisting the lock, he set it tight and dropped to the main floor.

  There were no vents or ports in sight anywhere inside the tank, just a lot of thick pipes that he deduced were actually periscopes, six for the commander in the turret, and three for the driver, two for the gunner and nothing for the seat of the loader near the blast proof door. Fair enough. His job was to move shells, not look outside and enjoy the view.

  Sighing gratefully, Kathleen unbuckled the chest harness and slid the heavy fuel tanks off her back and placed them carefully on the rough metal floor. The surface wasn't corrugated like that in an APC, more like sand, and it gave a good footing.

  Just then a patter of splats hit the hull of the tank, the noise softened by the dense triple armor. Then the rain arrived full force, sheets crashing over the machine, but even the mighty thunder was baffled down to a mere murmur.

  Nervously, Gaza and Kathleen watched the floor and walls for any sign of a leak, but the interior of the war wag stayed dry, and there wasn't the slightest trace of the rotten egg stink of the deadly rain. Then Gaza frowned as he realized that even the smell of the preburner fuel was gone. There had to be some sort of automatic venting.

  Sitting in the commander's chair, Gaza ran his hands across the shiny console, thinking of what he could do with only one such machine and wishing with all of his might that the tank was still operational.

  "Power," he whispered softly, thinking of the empire he could build with just one such machine.

  "Order received," the flat voice said from nowhere. "Switching from standby status to primary power."

  His chest pounding in fear, Gaza tried to breathe as the interior lights slowly grew in strength until giving a smooth white light. Then the baron laughed in delight. The nuking thing was still functioning, with some sort of preDark comp running the controls. Blind norad be praised, this was the find of a lifetime!

  "Please, identify," a flat voice rumbled.

  Fuck that, Gaza snorted angrily, he took orders from nobody, especially machines. "No, you identify!" he snapped. "And be quick about it!"

  A blinding fan of thin green light came out of the console and played across the baron, stopping at the cluster of decorations pinned to the shirt taken from the deader in the first APC at the head of the convoy.

  "Working," the voice intoned. "Acknowledged. Ident confirmed, Lieutenant Colonel Anderson. What are your orders, sir?"

  Trying to hide his excitement, Gaza glanced at the colorful collection of rainbow colored plastic squares in three neat rows. He had taken the stuff just because it looked pretty. But they had to have been symbols of some sort, the deader in the APC a chief sec man in his day. Now this dumbass machine thought Gaza was the long gone person simply because of the clothing? Excellent.

  "We're in the middle of a nuking chem storm," the baron started, then cursed himself for a feeb. He had to speak old talk.

  "Correction," he said slowly. "There is an…NBC storm outside. Seal the fuc...seal every vent and make sure none of that dreck…poison gets inside."

  There was a short pause.

  "Acknowledged," the voice said, and suddenly from every direction there sounded slams and hisses. A moment later, clean smelling dry air started blowing from the vents set under the control boards.

  Approaching her husband, Kathleen tugged on his sleeve and made a gesture at the roof, urging him to leave. With a snarl, Gaza shoved her away and she fell to the floor. Tears on her face, the scared woman begged him to leave, but he just swiveled the chair away to face the winking array of controls spanning the incredibly complex instrument board.

  "Tell me about yourself," Gaza ordered, reclining in the seat. "And start with the weapons."

  OUTSIDE, THE DEADLY RAIN was starting to extinguish the rampaging fires. The exposed corpses on the sidewalks quickly began to dissolve under the deluge.

  Louder than cannons, the thunder rumbled once more, lightning flashing down to strike a radio tower and starting a fresh fire that the rain soon drenched.

  Across the metropolis, the muties sought cover from the storm, only to find countless small fires raging deep within the buildings where the rain could never reach. Bloody violence filled the city as the mindless creatures fought one another in bestial fury over the bodies, adding more corpses to the city of death. But that was only a harbinger of the slaughter to come.

  IN WAR WAG ONE, windshield wipers worked steadily to keep the front glass clear of the rain. Humming and shaking, the patched air conditioner was working full power and the atmosphere inside the war wag was almost clear of the rotten egg stink of the deadly downpour.

  The burning wreckage of an APC sat blown apart before the rig, and all around the blast site bodies of the outriders eroded under the onslaught of the acid rain.

  "Hit it again!" Kate ordered, brandishing a fist. "No prisoners!"

  A few moments later, the rig shuddered as another missile was launched from the roof pod, and this time the APC was hit dead center. The crew in the control room cheered, as the radio crackled with static. Nobody paid attention to it, as the comm did that with every flash of lightning, but this time somebody started speaking.

  "Anybody hear us on this?" a gruff man's voice demanded. "We got this hand comm from a bike that rain hadn't swamped yet."

  Kate spun at that and stared hard at the speaker.

  What the hell was going on here? That sure wasn't Duncan over in War Wag Two.

  "You listening in the big rig?" the stranger continued. "The name is Ryan Cawdor, and I used to run with Trader back in the Darks. I'm here with J. B. Dix and some others."

  "Weapons on full, shoot anything coming our way," Kate ordered, taking out her hand comm and extending the slim antenna until the telescoping silver almost reached the ceiling.

  "Ryan, eh? The name is familiar to me," the woman said, pressing the transmit switch. "So where the hellblast are you?"

  "Out here in the rain," the man said simply. "Look on your four."

  "Bullshit," Blackjack growled in disbelief, checking the radar screen. "Ain't nothing out there but deaders and wreckage. It's some kinda trick."

  "Incorrect," Eric said from above. "The ear is picking up their voices through the rain. They are exactly where they claim to be."

  While the gunners in the machine gun blisters swept their blasters across the soaked desert, Kate worried a knuckle.

  "Mebbe," she relented, then went to the periscope to track the area. But sure enough, there they were, a half dozen or so people wrapped in plastic like MRE meals, and standing on a sandy mound, the yellow runoff creeping steadily up the side of their dwindling island.

  "What the hell is going on here?" Jessica growled, leaning into the windshield to try to get a look. "Some of his sec men left the wag?"

  "Men or women?" Jake asked, flipping a switch to turn on the halogen headlights. The beams stabbed into the rain but were swallowed whole after only a few yards. "He's got all those damn wives, ya know. I heard it was a hundred."

  "Only a few. But this looks like a mix," Kate said slowly. "Might be a kid and wrinklie, too. But I can't tell for sure."

  Taking a rag from his pants, Blackjack wiped the inside of the blister t
o remove the thickening fog of condensation that the damn AC always caused. "Think it's a mutiny?" he asked, squinting outside.

  "No," the Trader said, leaving the periscope. "No way that one APC could hold a dozen people even if they were stuffed in like cordwood."

  "Might have been riding on top," Jessica suggested. "Then the rain came and they ran just before we used the missiles."

  In spite of her gut feeling on the matter, Kate had to admit that did cover everything and made a damn lot of sense. The logical thing would be for them to start the engines and leave, letting the rain ace the strangers in its own way. Only that civie had spoken well of Ryan, and she had been hearing rumors of such a man who traveled the Deathlands chilling slavers, and such. That alone earned him a lot of ammo in her book. Mebbe even enough for a face-to-face.

  "Hello?" the radio cracked once more. "You still there?"

  "I hear ya," Kate asked bluntly into the comm, walking over to the front window. There wasn't much to be seen through the downpour. "So what do you want from me?"

  "How about letting us in? We're getting chilled out here."

  Jake and Blackjack both snorted rudely at that. At the door, the guard worked the bolt on his M-16 and tested the locks to make sure the hatch was firmly secured. Kate approved. Her people knew their jobs; hopefully so did she.

  "You might get chilled in here," the woman replied, a touch of anger distorting her words. "It's just a question of my blasters, or the nuking rain. I got no reason to ace you, but then, I also got no reason to trust you. But tell you what. We'll shoot you if you like, and save getting melted from the chems."

  There came a bitter laugh. "Okay, here's a new deal. We know where Gaza is. Fair trade. A ride for the info."

  "Mutie crap. The baron is chilled," Jake said, but there was a trace of doubt in his face. "Gotta be. Look at that fucking wag!"

  "If he was inside," Kate said, then raised the hand comm to her mouth and pressed the transmit switch. "Deal sounds okay, but too many riding along. I only need one of you to talk."