by James Axler
Until then, they could only wait, and prepare for war.
AT TWO-SON VILLE, Ryan and the other companions quickly gathered their blasters as Baron O’Connor snatched a lever-action Winchester from the gunrack on the wall. The carrying strap was lined with loops full of brass that shone greasy and golden in the light of the alcohol lanterns, the hollowpoint lead tips a smooth gray satin. Flipping the longblaster over by its hinged lever on the bottom, O’Connor chambered a round and caught the wep in his waiting palm.
“Let’s go,” the baron said in a low growl.
“Are we in danger, Father?” Simone asked in a small voice, sliding closer to her mother.
“Of course not,” Catherine snapped, reaching for another roasted bird. “This is just one of their silly drills. I have always said that—”
“Shut up, bitch!” the baron barked, raising the Winchester high as if he were going to strike the woman. “You will be quiet, or the last thing I ever do will be to throw you naked to the muties myself!”
Going pale, the trembling woman dropped the food and went very still in her chair. She could see in his face the man meant the threat.
“Triple red, people,” Ryan ordered, rising from his chair and drawing the SIG-Sauer to check the clip.
As the companions checked their weps, Stirling went to the nearest window and threw the wooden shutters open wide. The ville spread out below in shadowy peace. Everything looked fine. Then he noticed the sec men on the wall scurrying like beetles. Dimly, he could be hear an alarm bell ringing from the direction of the front gate. But there was no sign of a fire or the headlights of an invading army of coldhearts.
“Something is happening, that’s for sure,” Stirling rumbled, squinting into the darkness. “I just don’t see anything wrong.”
“No signs of blasterfire,” the baron added, leaning halfway out of another window. Lightning and thunder sounded from the sky above, masking the sound of the alarm, then the clarion warning came back loud and clear.
“Mebbe it’s a mistake,” Cauldfield suggested hopefully. The brewmaster was still sitting at the table, his gunbelt hanging from the back of his chair.
Standing guard near the door, Taylor gave the man a look of disgust that could have broken concrete.
“Nuke that drek.” Stirling spit. “My troops don’t ring the alarm bell for a bar fight. Blood of my fathers, what I wouldn’t give for a pair of binocs!”
J.B. whistled sharply. The sec chief turned just as the Armorer threw the Navy longeye. Stirling made the catch and extended the collapsible device to its full length and started sweeping the landscape.
“Where did you get that?” Catherine asked in wonder.
Not bothering to reply, Ryan worked the bolt-action on his Steyr SSG-70 and joined the big man at the window. Bringing up the longblaster, Ryan squinted through the telescopic sight. The optics of the predark scope were nowhere near as powerful as the antique Navy telescope, but still better than nothing.
Five stories below, people were pouring from the homes, huts and ramshackle houses in various stages of undress. But every one of them carried a weapon of some sort: blaster, crossbow, longbow, knife or ax. On the wall, the sec men were pelting along, fixing bayonets onto the end of their longblasters or ripping open plastic boxes full of Molotov cocktails. More and more torches were being lit, along with dozens of lanterns. Near the gate, a woman was steadily beating on a large hoop of iron with a hammer, the clangs echoing across Two-Son.
With the MP-5 in hand, Krysty joined Ryan at the window and looked out into the night. Her hair was still agitated, ruffling and moving against the breeze coming in through the window. Something was wrong, something triple bad. But what the nuking hell was happening?
“Something strange is going on in the Zone,” she whispered so softly only he could hear. “First, that jump at the redoubt and then the armed stickies…”
Checking his blaster, Taylor perked up his ear at that, and Krysty went silent. The man had to have unusually sharp hearing to have caught her words. No wonder he was a scout.
“Damn,” Stirling muttered, both hands on the long-eye. “Mebbe it’s all a mistake.”
Just then, a motion caught Ryan’s attention in the scope and he leaned farther out of the window. A spark floated in the darkness, a firefly moving above the ville, flying through the air. The jot of light rose and fell, bobbing and moving seemingly at random.
But as Ryan’s vision became adjusted to the darkness he could see the dim outline of the greenhouses. Fireblast, somebody was running along the top of the greenhouses carrying a torch. He grimaced. No, something was sprinting across the sloping glass as if it were level ground.
“Baron, you may have waited too long,” Ryan said, lowering the longblaster. “See there? I think the stickies are now hunting you.”
“Well, blast it!” the baron ordered, shouldering his way into the window. “Shoot, I say! That fancy longblaster of yours should be able to ace that thing from here.”
“Yes, it should,” Stirling said in agreement, looking away from the longeye. “But we don’t want that. Not yet.”
For a long moment O’Connor stared in barely controlled rage at his sec chief, then slowly nodded. “Smart,” he growled. “Dangerous, but if it works…”
“Yeah. If.”
Ripping the napkin from around his neck, the grim baron strode back to the table. “Amelia, get into the safe room. Take Catherine and the others with you. Lock the door and wait for me. Don’t leave until I personally say so.”
“Do you really think that it’s wise?” the woman said hesitantly.
But the baron was already at a gunrack on the wall. He took down a Browning, the carrying strap lined with ammo loops full of fat brass.
“Here,” O’Connor said, passing her the autofire. “Now move.”
Wordlessly, Lady Amelia looked at her husband, then took the longblaster and led the others from the dining hall. Only Cauldfield stayed, grumbling in annoyance while he strapped on a gunbelt and fumbled with the handcannon in the holster.
“I’ll stay with them,” Cauldfield said, checking the load in the wheel gun. The brewmaster was no sec man, but had grudgingly done his share of chilling over the years.
“No, you stay with me,” O’Connor ordered in a no-nonsense tone. He returned to the gunrack.
“My lord, should I make sure they’re safe?” Taylor asked, half turning toward the door.
Stuffing a box of brass into his pocket, the baron nodded as he picked up the Winchester once more. “Do it,” O’Connor said bluntly, then cast a sideways glance at Cauldfield. “However, nobody goes near my family but me. Savvy?”
Giving a brief salute, the scout slipped out of the dining hall as quiet as a knife in the night.
Returning to the window, Ryan tried to find the shambling figure again, but the firefly was gone. Had it only been a trick of the light? No! There it was again, a stickie running along the roof of the greenhouses, jumping from one to the next, carrying a burning torch. Not just a stick on fire, but a bastard torch with a thick wad of flaming material on the end.
“Sons of bitches know how to get fire,” Stirling said unhappily, lowering the longeye. “If that thing sets the barracks ablaze, the armory could catch. There’s enough black powder and brass there to blow this entire ville off the nuking map!”
With a tense expression, Jan looked hopefully at the skylight. “Mebbe the rain would stop the fire?”
“If comes in time,” Jak replied succinctly. His ruby eyes could see clearly in dim light, but the stickie had gone into hiding somewhere. The torch was nowhere to be seen on the roof of the greenhouses. Impatiently, the teenager shrugged his shoulders, checking the position of the knives hidden up the sleeves. They could save the ville by attacking, but waiting was the only way to protect the ville from further attacks. Damned if do, and damned if don’t. Just like in a Tex-Mex standoff, the first to flinch would get aced.
On the wall, nervous s
ec men were firing into the night, the muzzle-flashes of the black-powder weapons sending out bright yellow daggers of flame. More sec men raced along the ville streets, checking every alleyway, the bayonets on their blasters reflecting the torch light like slivers of fire.
“Tell me, is the armory where you have the refinery?” Mildred demanded, going on a hunch. “The place where you make the fuel for the war wag and the Molotovs?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cauldfield said uneasily, his gaze sliding away.
Mildred looked directly at the man. “What comes out first is best,” she said bluntly.
Whatever they were making for fuel in there, that statement should hold true. The most volatile compounds would be the first to distill. That was just basic chemistry. Although, that was mighty close to wizardry in these unenlightened days.
Dropping his jaw, the brewmaster recoiled from her statement as if physically struck. “Who are you people?” he demanded softly, a hand going for the blaster by his side.
“Allies,” J.B. replied, working the bolt on the Uzi.
Then Jak did the same for his MP-5 submachine gun, followed by Krysty, and Doc clicked back both hammers of his two handcannons. Every blaster was aimed at the brewmaster.
Ever so slowly, Cauldfield raised both hands, palms turned outward. “Allies, yes, of course,” he muttered quickly. “Sorry, I just… A reflex, you understand….”
“Cauldfield, go get the Metro running and pass out all of the spare Molotovs we have,” the baron commanded, brandishing the Winchester. “We’ll meet you at the gate.”
“As you command, my lord,” the brewmaster agreed, and hurried from the room.
Using the lever action, the baron loaded the Winchester with a flip of his one good hand. “You really know how to make juice?” O’Connor demanded of the physician, resting the longblaster on a shoulder.
Mildred nodded her head. “It’s simple, really.”
“Good. Then we don’t need that shitbrain anymore.”
Saying nothing, Ryan looked at Krysty. If the baron figured that out, then so had the brewmaster. Could be trouble coming that way. Good thing Taylor was guarding the baron’s family. A coldheart had once gotten control of Front Royal by seizing the pregnant wife of the baron. That had turned into a real bloodbath. Hopefully, that scenario wasn’t going to be repeated here.
“Okay, let’s go hunting,” O’Connor said grimly, starting for the door. He knew the danger of getting caught outside in a storm if the acid rain came. But there was always a telltale reek of chems first that would give them a few minutes’ warning. Among the ruins, there would be plenty of places to find safety. At least, from the rain. They might also get trapped in the stickie nest, but that was a chance the baron was willing to take to rid his ville of the lethal muties forever.
Suddenly the firefly appeared again, zigzagging along the side of the greenhouses, the stickie moving parallel to the ground.
“Move! I’ll meet you at the gate,” Ryan replied, resting his elbow on the windowsill and adjusting the focus on the telescopic sight. “First, I have to stop that nuke-sucker.”
“Follow me!” the baron boomed, charging into the hallway.
In a ragged formation, everybody left with the baron. Except for Krysty. She knew that the rapidfire and her revolver didn’t have the range to reach the stickie. Only the Steyr could chill it from here. But she wasn’t going to leave Ryan alone with nobody to guard his six.
Sweeping the darkness with the crosshair scope, Ryan found the firefly once more and tried to get a bead on the racing mutie. Unfortunately its natural shamble made it difficult to target, and the lack of decent light wasn’t helping any, either. He had to stop the creature from reaching the armory, but not by chilling it. That was the key to finding the nest. A stalking horse. If he could simply chase the mutie away, and it would lead them straight back home to the nest. Hopefully. However, to nick it in the leg was a hard shot even with good light and a stationary target. But there wasn’t any other choice.
“Shoot the glass,” Krysty suggested, her breath warm on his cheek.
“Smart.” Growing a hard smile, Ryan shifted his aim from the moving stickie and onto the roof of the greenhouse. Stroking the trigger of the Steyr, he sent a 7.62 mm round into the glass and a panel shattered.
Startled, the stickie jerked back from the explosion, the report of the longblaster lost in the cacophony of the ringing alarm bells. On the streets and wall, nobody glanced up at the blaster shot from the Citadel.
Hesitantly, the confused mutie started forward again, and Ryan took out another panel. Then three more in rapid succession, as fast as he could work the bolt. Jerking out the rotary clip, Ryan stuffed it into a pocket and shoved in a spare. The one-eyed man had plenty of ammo, but only four more of the loaded rotary clips.
“That did it, lover.” Krysty grunted, sounding oddly pleased. “See? It’s turning back.”
Checking through the scope, Ryan saw that the stickie had stopped and was looking around, clearly afraid to go in any direction out of fear the glass would erupt again. Taking a chance, Ryan aimed at the stickie’s shoulder, then moved down its arm, waiting for the inhuman hand to come into the cross fire. Holding his breath, Ryan moved the crosshair along the mottled flesh past the elbow, to the wrist, and then he fired.
Five hundred yards away, the wooden torch exploded into splinters and went flying out of the stickie’s grip. Hugging the limb, the mutie instantly turned to race along the roof toward the nearest part of the wall.
“Eastern wall, about a hundred yards from the gate,” Ryan snapped, carefully marking the direction. “Let’s move, lover. We got our stalking horse.”
“Now we attack,” Krysty finished grimly, her hair tightly curling as peals of thunder rumbled loudly in the cloudy skies.
Chapter Sixteen
Swiftly exiting the Citadel, Ryan and Krysty found a sec man waiting for them with a pair of saddled horses. Vaulting onto the animals, the two companions took off at a full gallop through the ville, and soon reached the front gate.
Fifty armed sec men were waiting there, the Metro poised at the barrier, its badly tuned engines rumbling and coughing, black smoke blowing out the tailpipes.
“East by southeast!” Ryan shouted, reining in his mount.
“About a hundred yards along the wall,” Krysty added, “if the mutie runs straight.”
“Open those gates!” O’Connor shouted, nudging his horse in the rump with his boot heels. The Winchester was tucked into a holster attached to the saddle, clinking bags full of Molotovs draped behind the one-armed baron.
As the gate lumbered open, Gill turned on the headlights of the Metro, flooding the area with white light.
“Turn those off!” Stirling yelled furiously. “We want to track this fucker, not make it run away to the mountains!”
Instantly, the headlights winked out and darkness returned.
Grinding gears, Gill got the war wag rolling and proceeded through the gate, radiating noise and fumes. In loose formation, the baron and his sec men followed close behind, the companions bringing up the rear.
Riding alongside the baron, Ryan said, “Jak should take the lead. There’s no better tracker.”
“The man could follow piss in the ocean,” J.B. declared confidently. The munitions bag was resting on the saddle, the Uzi hanging free at his side, ready for action.
Holding the reins tightly, O’Connor waved his hand in consent.
Bending, Jak chucked the reins and his mount put on a burst of speed as it moved in front of the ponderous Metro. The albino teen had gotten the best of the horses, a young palomino mare, bridle-wise and strong. The beast was well-trained, and he felt himself starting to match her movements with his own body.
As the mare galloped along the bottom of the wall, Jak strained to detect any sign of the escaping mutie. He didn’t have to try very hard for long. The horseback riders were doing a sweeping arch around the ville
to reach the eastern point of the perimeter, while the stickie was running pretty much in a straight line. That gave the advantage to the mutie. But the horses were a hell of a lot faster, and Jak actually saw the stickie run down the side of the wall and charge across the shatter zone toward the ruins.
“Banzai,” Jak muttered, remembering the word from when the companions had once jumped to Japan. Hell of a place. Sheer heaven for any blademan.
The unshod hooves of the palomino made dull thuds on the sandy street of the predark city as Jak carefully slowed the horse to a trot. He didn’t want to get too close, or the stickie would attack, but he didn’t want to fall behind and lose the mutie, either. This was a razor walk. One wrong move and the blood would flow.
Thunder rumbled overhead as Jak scanned the street with a sinking feeling that the mutie had somehow given him the slip. Then an inhuman footprint in the sand made him turn down a side street, and a moist handprint on a brick wall sent him along a dark alleyway.
Squinting to see in the midnight shadows, the albino teen drew his Colt and eased back the hammer. If the stickie knew it was being trailed, this was a perfect place for an ambush. But the teenager knew that he couldn’t risk a light of any kind. Sound and smell, that was all he had to go on for the moment.
Unfortunately, the approaching storm was covering the sound of suckered feet running, and the faint smell of a chem storm was masking the rank body odor of the unwashed stickie. Suddenly, a flash of lightning split the night, and the teen saw a flicker of movement on a rooftop, hand and footprints dotted along the side of the stucco wall. Shitfire and honeycakes, it had taken to the rooftops!
Having no choice, Jak kicked the mare into a gallop and circled the crumbling predark store. He reached the other side of the building just in time to see the leg of the racing stickie vanish around a corner.
That was when Jak noticed the street was clear of sand. Instantly, the teen reined in his mount. The hooves of his horse would sound like blaster shots on the hard pavement. Having no choice, Jak then slipped out of the saddle and proceeded as quickly as possible on foot. Now with both hands free, Jak holstered the Colt and swung up the MP-5 rapidfire. If things went to hell, he wanted to ace the mutie as fast as possible. And from a distance. One swipe of its hands could remove his face.
