by James Axler
Jak quickened his pace, breaking into a run. Dean did likewise when he saw the albino increase his speed, but he didn’t realize why Jak had taken such action. Seeing Doc’s apparently aimless motions, Jak had realized that the giant mutie worm had left some cast behind it to cover the hole it had made at the entry to the burrow. But this was just to cover its tracks—the majority of the cast was aboveground, as they had seen. On the assumption that the worm couldn’t produce more than it had ingested from the earth, that meant that there wasn’t enough cast left for the hole to be covered deeply.
With a sudden cry of surprise, Doc found the boundary of the wormhole as his cane and left leg plunged through the thin crust of the cast, and he began to fall through into the hole beneath, which could extend into the earth to any depth before the cast deposits began again.
Within a matter of seconds, Jak had reached Doc. He slowed when he was a few feet from the older man, scanning the earth around for signs of where the wormhole began. Doc’s descent had been slowed by the fact that he was relatively light, and although the cast couldn’t support his weight, particularly after his prodding had broken through it in one spot, it was still porous and damp enough for the earth to hold together, and thick enough to stop him falling straight through.
The line delineating where the hole ended was indicated by the damper earth of the cast, which had begun to be sucked in at the sides. So it was easy for Jak to pick out—even in the fading light—just where the solid ground ended and the thin crust of earth cast began.
Dean came up beside the albino, and following his line of view, took in what Jak could see.
“Hang on, Doc,” he called. “Don’t move too much, it’ll disturb the surface.”
“While I thank you for your sage and timely advice, I think I may just have been able to work that out for myself,” Doc returned with more than a hint of sarcasm. “However, I fear that before too long I may not be able to help moving, particularly in a downward direction at a rapid rate.”
“Okay, Doc—just hang on,” Dean repeated as he turned to Jak. “Well?”
The albino looked from the old man to the edge of the circle, sizing it up rapidly. “Follow,” he snapped, running around the hole until he came to the point where the prone Doc was nearest to the edge of the cast circle.
The other members of the recce party had by now joined them, but stood back to let Jak take control.
Pointing across and gesturing, Jak told Dean, “Crawl across, spread weight. Take Doc then try pull back. Take my legs and pull fucking hard.”
Dean nodded shortly, and Jak dropped to his belly, edging across the cast surface toward Doc, using his arms and legs to spread his weight over as much of the surface as possible and not disturb the crust any more than was necessary.
“Jak, dear boy, so glad to see you,” Doc breathed as the albino approached.
“Take each hand, try come with me,” Jak said by way of acknowledgment, offering his outstretched hands to Doc, who gladly took them, placing his sword stick—extracted from the cast during his initial struggles—between his teeth. It had been with him throughout his dangers, and he was damned if he would yield it so easily.
Jak felt Doc’s grip on his wrist clamp into place, the older man’s fingers like iron, despite his apparent frailties. In return, the albino closed his hands around Doc’s forearms, his own grip tightening and digging into the stringy sinews of the older man. Jak began to shuffle backward, using his feet to try to gain purchase without digging too far into the crust and breaking it any more than it had been broken already.
On the edge of the circle, Dean also dropped to his belly and reached out to grab Jak’s ankles as they came within range. He steeled himself, knowing that once he grabbed hold he had to cling on for dear life and be prepared for the sudden shock and pull downward should the crust give way beneath Jak and Doc.
Jak’s ankles met with Dean’s hands, and the young Cawdor grasped tightly, beginning to flex his biceps and pull backward, adding his own momentum to the backward motion of the albino.
Doc felt the crust yield around him, its spongy grip giving way as he wriggled and tried to haul himself forward with the help of the pull that Jak was exerting. Slowly, with an almost infinite care that had to be balanced with the inevitable moment when time would give out and the crust would just collapse from its own decay, the albino hunter and Doc began to move across the surface of the cast, Jak’s ankles and half of his calves now over the edge of the cast and back on solid ground.
Doc’s leg came free, and he was just edging his way out of the hole when he felt the cast begin to give way around him. By unplugging the gap he had caused, he had freed the vacuum and allowed the hole beneath to suck in the rest of the cast.
“It is going!” he yelled as the earth fell away beneath him, dragging him with it until he fell free with a sudden jolt that made his shoulders lurch sickeningly. In turn, Jak felt the sudden pull of gravity on Doc’s weight shoot through his own shoulders before he, too, was rendered defenseless by the loss of the cast surface beneath him. Agony shot through him as his knees buckled the wrong way, his legs kept rigid by that part of them anchored to the solid earth by Dean.
“Quick, help him,” Danny yelled, seeing the agony on Dean’s face as he tried to cling to Jak and Doc, and attempt to pull them out of the hole, which had now fully opened.
The other three members of the recce party were quick to move to Dean’s aid, helping Danny to secure Dean and take some of the strain by grabbing at Jak’s legs.
Pulling back, Mik and Tilly had hold of Dean, while Lonnie and Danny reached out over the hole to grasp Jak and haul him in, Lonnie grabbing hold of Doc as he came into view.
Before too long, Jak and Doc were on solid ground, the older man lying on his back, gasping for breath and feeling the burning agony of stretched muscle and tendons, while Jak lay facedown, gathering himself. Dean rolled over onto his back, breathing heavily, and spoke to the sky.
“Thanks” was all he could utter.
Lonnie was about to say something when a distant rumble stopped him dead. Jak looked up sharply, his senses instinctively placing the sound as under the earth.
“Big trouble,” he said.
Chapter Seven
Mildred lined up the target, drawing a bead with her ZKR. The Czech-made target pistol sat lightly in her hand, palm firm around the grip, finger coiled around the trigger, squeezing with an infinite gentleness and care. Her free hand was cupped lightly beneath, supporting but not pressuring. She could feel the eyes of the Hellbenders she had joined at the target range bore into her back, willing her to screw up.
No way. In the days before skydark, when she had won a silver medal at the last Olympiad before the nukecaust, she had felt eyes boring into her many times. Then it was idle competition; this time it was deciding whether she could hack it in a life-or-death situation. In many ways the pressure was equal. It all came down to whether Mildred could shut herself off, focus on the task in hand and score on the target.
No problem.
She squeezed her trigger finger and let loose a cluster of four shots, two to the center of the target that circled the mannequin’s chest, and two to the target that was—of necessity—much smaller and situated in its head.
“Check that out,” she said clearly as the deafening noise of the cordite explosions began to subside in the enclosed target room.
A lean black man with a shorn crop of black-and-gray hair that was receding took hurried strides toward the target mannequin. He was shorter than Mildred—about five feet four—and was composed almost entirely of muscle. He was the only black man in the entire redoubt, and had been eyeing her since she had arrived in the shooting gallery. The fact that she was the only black woman may have had something to do with it, but Mildred wasn’t too keen to address this fact. She wanted to get in the shooting practice that Correll had ordered and get back to her patient. Cy had come around shortly before she had left the med la
b, and she wanted to run a couple of tests.
“Hey, sister, that was pretty fine shooting,” the man at the target yelled back over the length of the room. “Two clean shots in the center of each area. That’s a good eye.”
“A still target isn’t a problem,” she replied with a dismissive wave. “A moving one is much more of a challenge—and much more realistic.”
“She’s got a point, Rudi,” agreed another of the Hellbenders clustered in the gallery. Besides Mildred and Rudi, who was now making his way back toward the group, there were four others, none of whom she particularly recognized. A small, sturdy woman with short blond hair and green eyes looked at Mildred askance.
“You always like to play hunter, do ya?” she asked. Mildred thought she caught an edge in the woman’s voice. She wasn’t the only one. Rudi gave the woman a sharp stare.
“Leave it, Cath,” he snapped.
“I was only saying,” the blonde replied. “Papa Joe sent her here to get some practice in, right? Only she ain’t really doing that if she just shoots at a standing target, is she?”
It seemed reasonable enough, but there was an edge to the woman’s voice that the other three Hellbenders in the room picked up on. There were two men and a woman, all dressed in camou and showing the muscularity that suggested Correll liked to train his people hard. Other than that, Mildred couldn’t yet identify them. They exchanged glances that Mildred read as meaning that the blonde could be trouble. Without meaning to, Mildred had walked into a situation.
There was only one way out.
“She’s right,” Mildred said with mock sadness, shaking her head so that her plaits swung about her. “I really need to take the more difficult option here.”
The blonde grinned with a lopsided expression that made her look sinister, an impression reinforced by her tone of voice as she said, “That can be arranged.”
She walked over to a panel on the wall, where Rudi joined her. While they argued in whispers that Mildred couldn’t quite catch, one of the others came across to her.
“Cath thinks everyone is after Rudi,” he said simply, “and she’s a possessive bitch. But harsh. You know how this works?” he asked, indicating the range. Mildred shook her head, so he outlined the course briefly, and had just finished when Cath and Rudi came over to Mildred.
“You ready to show how good you are?” the blonde said, sneering. When Mildred nodded, she added, “I’ve set the fucker on the highest level, just to give you a good workout.”
“Thanks,” Mildred said, trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
She took her mark at the beginning of the course, and waited.
The lights dimmed, and Cath screamed “Go!” as she triggered the course.
Mildred had to take the course at top speed, running down the middle of the concourse from one end to the other. Along the way she had to fire at opposition targets as they sprang up, avoid firing at figures without targets that were sprung as decoys, and also avoid being hit by opposition fire, which was indicated by paint bombs.
It was a test of her reflexes, her flexibility and her sure eye. The targets were to each side and in front, causing her to change direction and pull back at speed as they sometimes sprang up to her rear, or right in front of her. And all the time she was acutely aware of the paint bombs that were fired from oblique positions.
The two-hundred-yard course was littered with targets and decoys, and Mildred had to pitch and roll to avoid the paint bombs, snapping off shots as she rolled or came to her feet, twisting around the targets and decoys that hurled upward into her path, giving her little time to catch her breath, let alone reload the ZKR.
She acted completely on instinct, letting it wash over her conscious mind and take control, and before she knew it, she was at the end of the course, back against the wall, panting heavily.
The lights came up. She looked down, there was no paint anywhere on her body. She turned and tried to look over her shoulder, but the whoops of the other Hellbenders told her that she had made it through unscathed. Rudi was walking the length of the course, whistling softly to himself. When he reached Mildred he looked at her, shook his head in disbelief and turned to the others.
“She hit all the bastard targets and didn’t chill a decoy,” he yelled, unable to keep the amazement from his voice.
Mildred was also unable to contain herself. Not only was she pleased that her senses and instinct were still sharp, but she also couldn’t resist a wry grin at the expression of frustration and displeasure on Cath’s face.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” Despite herself, she was unable to prevent a little smugness from intruding on her tone as she left the Hellbenders to their target practice and returned to the med lab.
TRAINING TOOK PLACE in the gym that was on the third level of the redoubt. It was still fully equipped from beyond skydark, with a variety of gym equipment both manual and electronic. In the center of the room, a space was cleared for a gym mat that delineated an area where unarmed combat could take place.
Ryan and Krysty were training along with several of the Hellbenders. Many of them were using the old treadmills to work on their muscle strength and stamina, walking long distances at a fast pace with full backpack and weaponry to simulate marching conditions. Ryan was among those who were using the wall bars to climb, hauling themselves up by their arms alone in order to increase arm strength.
Krysty was standing with a small group that was training in unarmed combat, perfecting methods of hand-to-hand fighting.
Training in hand-to-hand was always tricky. There was no way that any of them could pull punches, as that would be almost to defeat the point of playing. However, to seriously damage one of your colleagues with the planned attack so close wasn’t a good thing. So the only option was for both opponents in the ring at any time to concentrate on defense.
A short, stocky man with Hispanic coloring and flowing black hair tied back in a ponytail was in combat with Travis. They were evenly matched in terms of physique, but Travis moved more quickly, jerkily, and with a sense of nervousness that the other man didn’t possess.
One of the spectators leaned across to Krysty. “See Juan,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth, “he’s just about the best fighter we’ve got in here. Guy’s so good that he doesn’t need a blaster.”
“Everyone need a blaster, no matter how good,” the Titian-haired beauty replied, “because if your opponent has one, then you’re fucked if you can’t fight from a distance of more than a few feet.”
“Guess you’re right there.” The Hellbender chuckled, stroking the short, stubbly beard that decorated his pointed chin.
Whether Juan heard this exchange, Krysty couldn’t tell. She just knew that suddenly he increased the intensity of his attack, and from making purely defensive moves to block Travis’s assault, he upped a gear and moved onto the offensive. Blocking a forearm punch from his opponent, Juan followed through smoothly to drive Travis’s arm back, leaving the area of his chest exposed. Travis moved his other arm across to block the expected blow that Juan shaped to make, but instead of making the chop that his flattened hand suggested, the Hispanic shuffled to move his weight and brought up one foot to drive it into the now exposed and turned groin of his opponent. Caught out completely, the sharp blow drove the breath from Travis’s body as a lightning pain shot through his groin, the trapped nerve deadening all sensation in his leg and making it buckle while his genitals and lower gut felt as though a red-hot knife had been slicing through them.
Stunned by the pain and loss of balance, Travis fell forward, stumbling and throwing his arms open to try to regain his balance. Juan took full advantage of this defenseless position by driving home a one-two fisted attack, the right hand taking the prone man in the chest and driving him back, his head snapping up in shock and pain and coming into the perfect position for the second blow to slam into his mouth and nose, the hard knuckles of the Hispanic shattering two of his teeth and
causing others to drive into the soft pulp flesh of his mouth while his nose exploded in a shower of blood, the tender skin and cartilage of the septum rupturing.
Travis’s eyes turned up in his head, and he toppled backward, unconscious before he hit the mat, his head bouncing hard, twice, before he came to rest.
“I need nothing,” Juan said in a low growl, turning to where Krysty stood. His eyes were dulled by blood lust, and they bore into her with a stony expression. “So what do you need?” he added coldly.
“Nothing,” the woman replied, her own eyes equally cold, the hair about her face and neck fluttering wildly as the prehensile tissue within it responded to the sudden danger. “And that really wasn’t necessary. If you have something you want to prove, then prove it.”
“I just have,” Juan said.
Krysty raised an eyebrow. “Really? I didn’t notice you tell Travis you’d changed the rules.”
“There are no rules.”
“Yeah? You gonna tell Correll that if Travis can’t take part in the attack—if anyone else you mess up can’t take part in the attack?” She waited, but the Hispanic refused to answer.
Krysty continued, “Thought not. If you have something to say to me—something to prove to me—then you deal with it with me. Understand?”
Still keeping her eyes on him, Krysty moved onto the mat. She removed the blaster that was holstered in the small of her back and placed it at the side of the mat, her eyes still fixed on the Hispanic. Juan moved back and thumbed his cheek, wiping sweat from it. His eyes were like steel as he returned her stare.
“So you want to go the whole way?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “If that’s what it takes.”
“What about your boyfriend?” Juan asked her, gesturing to where Ryan was positioned, his forearms and calves entwined on a rope dangling from the ceiling. The one-eyed man was observing, but made no effort to move for any of his blasters or for his panga. Indeed, he kept his face set and hard, betraying no emotions of any kind.
