by neetha Napew
Fighting the shuddering truck to a halt, Harlan dived from the vehicle and scrambled underneath for safety. Hiding seemed the smart move. Screams sounded from every direction, and dim headlights came on as another truck lurched from the line. Harlan calculated a jump to the wag, but froze when he saw the truck careen wildly left and right, then accelerate and smash directly into the low stone wall edging the parking lot. A mangled body crashed through the windshield and a winged figure enshrouded the man just as the headlights winked out.
An inhuman figure blocked his view of the wreck, and something grabbed hold of his blaster, crushing hand and weapon into a mangled pulp of flesh and steel. Harlan screamed as he was hauled out from under the chassis. Struggling to escape, the man smacked his face against the frame, knocking himself unconscious. His last conscious thoughts were of a fetid sewer breath and a distant pain in his groin moving ever upward.
The last of the crew now headed for the library, the line of trucks horribly alive with movement. An awful stench tainted the air, and the screams of the dying filled the night. Suddenly, a lone man holding a pistol and brandishing a machete stumbled into view.
“Come get some!” Hal cried, fury contorting his features into a feral mask as he expertly twirled the shiny steel blade about in a glittering whirlwind defense.
“Over here!” Wu-Lang shouted, doing a figure-eight pattern with the M-16 into the sky. The blaster jammed again, and he jerked the bolt to clear the bad round. Frigging predark ammo was for shit!
“Head for the library!” Brian added, shoving shells into the shotgun. When his revolvers became empty, he had simply grabbed the first blaster he found lying on the ground. There were plenty of shells sewn into the strap, enough for a while anyway. However, the man simply refused to notice how sticky the stock was, his mind overwhelmed with the current fight to bother with such trivia.
Hal jumped at the sound of their voices as if startled that anybody else was still alive, then he charged toward them firing his pistol to both sides. But he crossed only a few yards when he dropped to his knees, the machete skittering along the asphalt into the bare shrubbery lining the sidewalk.
Coldly, the others turned their blasters on the latest victim as he was lifted thrashing into the sky. Pistol shots sounded from above, then screams, and then limbs started to fall, closely followed by a bloody torso.
“Get inside!” Wu-Lang screamed, feeling sick to his stomach.
Rifle over his shoulder, Baldy was already tugging on the handle with both hands. “The door’s stuck! No, I got it!”
With those words, the door silently swung open and Baldy was dragged inside, the closing door nipping off his fingers as the screaming man desperately clawed at the jamb to stay out of the killing darkness.
Firing their machine guns wildly, the handful of survivors formed a rough circle, keeping their backs tight against one another. It was a plan forged by instincts created by a million years of plains apes learning how to counter a charge by the savage jungle cats.
“They ain’t getting us from behind now!” Brian shouted triumphantly over the booming of his shotgun. “Head for the ammo boxes! We’ll chill these fuckers yet!”
As they awkwardly scuttled off, a spatter of rain hit the ground exactly where the group had been standing seconds earlier, the asphalt sizzling from contact with the moisture. In stark comprehension, Wu-Lang understood what was happening and cast aside his blaster to frantically run for his life.
“Gutless coward!” Brian spit, training his shotgun on the retreating man.
Soft rain parted down, coating on their hands and faces. Shrill screams of hideous torment sounded as the coldhearts clawed at their dissolving faces while the dark shapes moved among them slashing throats. Moments later, there was nothing alive in the parking lot.
The only sounds were the hiss and crackle of the dying embers in the campfire.
Then the echo of running boots sounded from the streets of the ancient city, and the stars winked out as something very large eclipsed the heavens, moving to the sound of snapping canvas.
Chapter Ten
Crackling torches dotted the streets of the ville in reddish light, the illumination reflecting off the honeycombed glass of the many greenhouses. The streets were deserted with every door closed, every window bolted shut, only the murmur of soft voices coining from inside the lower levels of the intact buildings and from underneath the gutted ruins. Beyond the pile of smashed vehicles composing the great wall, sec men watched the sky with blasters in hand as the scintillating beams of the searchlights swept the cloudy sky, endlessly searching for an enemy that would attack without notice. In the far distance, a wolf howled in agony for a lost mate. Cursing under their breaths, grim sec men moved closer to the lights and made sure their weapons were ready for combat.
Cutting through the alleyway between the market place and a partly built greenhouse, Leonard Strichland strode purposefully across the dark plaza heading toward the bright lanterns of the baron’s palace. After the revolution, the open area before the converted museum had been painstakingly cleared of structures so that the defenders inside would have a clear field of fire against any attackers. Leonard considered that a practical idea. If the old baron had thought of such things-indeed, if the despot had considered anything other than harshly disciplining his people-then the man might still be in charge of Alphaville instead of a chained prisoner in the dank basement of his former home.
The walls of the predark museum soared twenty yards into the sky, a louvered expanse of granite strips interlocking into a solid homogeneous whole of amazing strength. No windows marred the three sides of the predark structure. The entire front had once been a window, but the new baron had bricked up the vulnerable area, both inside and out, giving it a relative stability almost equal to the granite sides. On the roof, sec men steadily patrolled the perimeter of the building, bolt-action longblasters held at quarter-arms.
Secretly, Leonard knew there were also small kegs of black powder with homemade fuses in a locked munitions box up there to drop on invaders. Any attacking force would be met with fierce opposition. Born and bred on the dirty streets of Alphaville, Baron Gunther Strichland didn’t make the same mistakes as his dethroned predecessor.
On the ground, sandbags formed a low wall before the double doors, the emblazoned brass marred with dull streaks where soft lead bullets had ricocheted. A half circle of steel I-beams salvaged from the ruins across the Stink River chasm had been welded into tripods to act as a deterrent to attacking wags, or even APCs. Getting past those would take a predark tank. Coils of barbed wire stretched across the ground like dark smoke frozen in time and space. A few strips of stained cloth here and there marked the spots where sec men had thrown the corpses of their fallen comrades onto the wire so they could gain access to the museum and continue the fight to usurp their former leader.
Before being captured alive, Baron “Mad Jim” Harvin had unleashed his pet winged muties, but it didn’t work. Sergeant Strichland had carefully orchestrated the revolt at first dawn so his troops would be safe from the deadly black bats. Or flying lizards, or whatever the hell the muties were. Leonard had no idea, nor did anybody else, as the creatures only appeared at night and the only folks who got a good view of them died soon afterward, torn to shreds. Not a single one of the creatures had ever been successfully slain.
Leonard walked toward the front doors of the palace so that the guards would see him coming. Five huge men stood behind the sandbags, longblasters over their shoulders, handblasters at their belts. The Elite, the baron called them. The five were sworn to die before allowing invaders inside the home of their baron. To their left and right rested a pair of old muzzle-loading cannons. It had taken two years to unblock the barrels, but the weapons were fully functional now, and the soft cotton bags stacked in the red plastic milk crates were filled with bits of broken glass, bent nails and other tiny scraps of metal. A band of raiders had gotten this far once, and after the canno
ns roared, nothing remained but bloody clothing and smashed bones. It was the last direct attack.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” a sec man said.
“Morning, Sergeant.” Leonard smiled, trying not to lose his armload of papers. “Permission to enter, please.”
“Granted, sir, as always,” the sergeant said, waving him on.
A private pulled open the door and saluted as Leonard walked through. Inside was the mate of the outside cannons, and more sec men standing behind more sandbags. They put aside their card game and snapped to attention.
“Morning, sir. Dropping off a message, or looking for your father?” a grizzled veteran asked, his face mostly composed of scars.
The phrase embarrassed the adopted boy. “The second, Sergeant. Do you know where is the baron?”
“Cellar,” said the sec man grimly. “We caught a thief last week. Now he’s getting justice.”
“One of our own, or a newcomer?”
“Local man. Cobbler. Been here for years.”
“Did he lie about the crime?” Leonard asked hopefully. Stealing food was a pardonable crime, and the perpetrator often got no more than a dozen lashes. But lying to the baron was death by the Machine.
The soldier shook his head. “He should have known better.”
“Thank you.” The boy hurried off, still clutching the portfolio of papers and maps to his chest.
“I hope he toughens up.” The private sighed, reclaiming his chair and gathering his cards. “Don’t want a momma’s boy like Leo there as our baron.”
Fanning the cards in his hand, the sergeant shifted them about to hide the straight he had drawn. “Don’t be fooled. Boy’s still young. But I saw him in the revolt when we charged this place. He took an arrow in the leg and a bullet in the chest and he fought on with his father. Tough as a slut’s heart, the both of them.”
“Long as he ain’t twisted as his old man,” the private muttered, laying down a card and drawing a fresh one. “I hate all that screaming in the night.”
“Well, got to be worse for them doing the screaming,” the other man added wisely.
“Aye, suppose it is.” He brushed a hand through his golden crew cut. “Damn, I’m sure glad my girl is a blonde.”
SMOKING SLIGHTLY, vegetable-oil lanterns with rope wicks stood in wall niches illuminating the interior. The high vaulted ceiling of the museum was perfect for conducting away the greasy fumes. Hurrying across the terrazzo expanse of the front hall, Leonard turned left and took the main stairs downward, the broad steps some four yards wide. There used to be a brass handrail along the center, but that had been destroyed when the rebels drove an APC down the stairs, chasing the former baron. Caught him, too.
Guards and maids greeted Leonard politely as he hurried along the corridor past the storage room and the armory, past the furnace room and finally the jail. The door was closed, tufts of cloth rimming the jamb of the thick portal, but he could still hear the muted roar of machinery inside and a man pitifully screaming.
Withdrawing a small ring of keys from his pocket, Leonard unlocked the door and entered the deafening enamel house, the air stinking of excrement and exhaust fumes.
“Mercy!” screamed the man hanging from the ceiling by chains. The chains were wrapped about the hanging man’s wrists, a trickle of blood flowing down his arms as he struggled to get free.
“Please!” the prisoner wailed, the word barely audible over the muted rumble of the machine directly beneath. A black plume of smoke streamed from its exhaust pipe, and the ceiling was blacker than hell itself from the accumulation of grime from its use.
Squads of somber men in clean uniforms stood about the abattoir watching the suspended victim struggle for life. None of the grim faces were softened by an expression of pity, or even interest.
“Mercy?” Baron Gunther Strichland asked, crossing his powerful arms across his barrel chest. The redheaded giant towered over the other men, his long fiery red hair moving as if endowed with a will of its own.
“Mercy?” he repeated as if it were a new word never tasted before. “An interesting choice of words for a traitor.”
“I am innocent!” the man howled as the chain jerked and once more he was lowered inexorably toward the maw of the churning machine. Between his bare feet, he could see the blur of the interlocking blades whirling at incredible speed. His stomach heaved at the idea of what was happening, but nothing rose into his throat. He hadn’t been fed for days in exact preparation for such an eventuality.
“I didn’t break the window!”
“No,” Gunther said, accepting a silver chalice of cool wine from a busty maid in Army fatigues. “Your son did, and valuable plants were destroyed. Should we punish him instead?”
“Yes! Yes,” the man whimpered, rivulets of sweat pouring off his naked body. His toes could feel the vibrations of the Machine in the air. It sent waves of ice through his veins, and the judgement room swirled as he started to faint.
“Not yet, thief,” a woman snarled, and threw a bucket of ice water over him.
The shock forced him fully awake, and he squealed like a piglet being dragged to the butcher’s block.
“Do you honestly think,” Gunther murmured, sipping from the chalice, “that we should kill a child instead?”
“Yes! He did it, not me! Not me!”
With a snarl, the baron dashed the chalice to the concrete floor. “Then you are worse than a thief. You’re a coward, as well! Your boy may have done the damage, but you, the adult, hid the fact! By the time we discovered the damage, the sandstorm had killed over half the crops in that greenhouse! How many others may die from lack of food because of your cowardice?”
“Excuse me, High Baron,” Leonard said from the doorway.
Furious over the interruption, Gunther turned, his red hair a crimson halo about his distorted features. But when he saw who it was, the man relaxed his posture and his filaments laid down obediently on his wide shoulders.
“Yes, Leonard, what is it?” the baron asked calmly.
The teenager bowed respectfully. “We have a problem.”
Gunther turned back to the screaming man. “Then handle it, my son. I’m busy at the moment dispensing justice.”
A diplomatic cough. “It is a serious problem, sir.”
“Sir, eh?” The baron smiled tolerantly. “Very well, then, let’s go.” He turned to a sec man. “Lieutenant Kilgore, handle that matter.”
A slim, dark, handsome man snapped to attention and briskly saluted. “At once, Baron!”
Gunther reached for the door latch, but Leonard took his arm.
“Father,” he whispered softly, glancing at the writhing prisoner, “I know his crime was terrible, unforgivable, the killing of plants, the stealing of food...” He swallowed and his voice faltered.
Baron Strichland rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder until he looked up. “Never be afraid of anything. Especially when asking me for a favor. Understood?”
“Yes, my father.”
“Is it mercy you wish, for that?” the baron asked, the distaste in his voice painfully clear. “A thief and a liar who places the blame of a crime on his own child?”
“Yes,” the boy said forcibly.
Debating the issue, the baron looked directly at the rest of his council. Their opinions were also clear on the matter. The weeping prisoner had drawn his knees to his chest, fighting to keep his flesh away from the churning maw of the wood chipper.
“I can refuse you nothing, my chosen son,” the giant said gently. “Mercy it shall be.”
Leonard took his father’s hand and kissed it, “Thank you, Father.”
“Enough,” Gunther said, shaking off the embrace. “I’m the baron, not some mucking high priest.”
“Sorry.”
“Lieutenant Kilgore, show the criminal mercy.”
“At once, sir!”
“Come, lad, to my office, where we can talk in private.” The baron turned and they left the room.
“Mercy.” Kilgore sneered in contempt. “For the likes of you. This is your lucky day.”
And so saying, the lieutenant reached inside his camou-colored flak jacket, drew a Colt .45 blaster and fired once. Half of the man’s skull was removed by the bullet, blood spraying out in a hideous geyser. Limply, the feet of the warm corpse dropped straight into the blades and disappeared. The crew holding the chains released the tension, and the body dropped without hindrance and a hideous whinnying noise rose as the man was reduced to mincemeat.
“Enough!” Kilgore said after a minute, sliding his blaster away into a predark shoulder holster. “Never waste fuel. Why is that, Private Hanson?”
Caught by surprise, the middle-aged woman snapped to attention. She had been busted four times back to private for not paying attention while on duty, and here it was happening again! “Ah, because the Machine won’t run on the alcohol we make, but only on real gasoline.”
“That is correct. You there, Corporal, what is the sequence of the mix?”
His mustache merely a wisp of hair across his upper lip, the teenager swallowed and saluted. “Boil the residue twice to remove impurities, then mix him with sand in a one-to-ten ratio. Then add twice-boiled sewage two parts to five. Let it ripen for a week in summer, a month in winter.”
“Very good.” Kilgore smiled, wiping a tiny droplet of blood off his sleeve. “When he is processed, add the new soil to the contaminated soil of the repaired greenhouse. We may be able to recover some crops from this mess yet.”
“Sir, about the child who did the actual damage...”
“He is now a ward of the ville, and upon age will become a sec man trained to kill those who steal food from our bellies.” A rue smile. “We do not harm children here, Private. Only thieves and liars.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman replied, fear a lump of ice in her belly from a carrot she had stolen from the kitchens the previous week.