ACrucible of Time

by neetha Napew

  Christ was portrayed as a white man in his thirties, with neatly trimmed hair and a small goatee beard, his blue eyes glittering fanatically. In most of the paintings He was wearing a smart set of camouflage fatigues and carried a whole range of weaponry. The main stained-glass window behind the altar—which was made from ammo boxes riveted together—showed him hefting a Kalashnikov, flames spitting from the muzzle.

  In one of the side windows, highlighted in garish reds and yellows, the Savior was carrying an antique Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle, with a bayonet fixed. Blood dripped from the steel blade.

  Spread all across the ceiling was the military Jesus, complete with a halo of golden barbed wire, leaning from the cockpit of an unidentifiable tank that was driving over a mountain of pulped corpses, most of which were clearly of different, nonwhite ethnic origins.

  Another picture showed the Christ-figure slitting the throat of a huge, red-eyed grizzly, a jet of arterial blood spurting out over the faces of a group of worshipping acolytes, all holding Smith & Wesson automatics.

  "Not like any Blessed and Merciful Jesus that I've ever seen, lover," Krysty whispered. "More like a kind of military Conan the Barbarian."

  "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild," Doc croaked, sitting next to the scarlet-haired woman. "I see precious little evidence of either meekness or mildness."

  Joshua Wolfe held up his remaining hand, waiting for silence. "Enough, brothers and sisters," he said. "We are here in the name of the Lord Jesus, armorer over all blasters. Watcher of ammo and hammer and bolt and cartridge. Master of the full-metal jacket. Upholder of the razor-steel blade."

  On the other side of the church, Ryan noticed an immensely tall and powerful woman, eyes closed V behind layers of fat, strangler's hands clasped, mouth open in adoration. She wasn't someone he cared to go up against in a dark alley after midnight.

  "We worship gladly, O Lord, at thy feet. We welcome thy blessed aid in all manner of chilling. Thou art there at the shooting and the stabbing. At the strangling and the drowning. At the poisoning and the flaying. The hider and the hunter and the tracker. At the slitting and the hacking and the brother with the switchblade knife. At the burning, the night's ambush and the final shuddering breath."

  He paused, and the congregation came smoothly in with their well-rehearsed response. "Let thy rain and burning embers fall into our open, staring eyes. For we are without all grace if You are not with us."

  "Hallelujah! Come heal the sick and trample down the weak!" roared the giantess, arms held up above her head, fingers almost touching the ornate wrought-iron chandelier.

  Ryan heard J.B. whispering to Mildred. "Looks like she done her fair share of trampling the weak."

  Mildred sniggered. On the left side, in the second row of pews, Jim Owsley turned and scowled across at the sudden noise, glaring at Mildred.

  Wolfe ignored the minor interruption. "We listen and note all Your teachings, Master-at-arms Jesus. Keep the sun at your back and allow for windage. Lay off the shot if you're firing down a hill. And never hit seventeen when you're up against the dealer. Never give your real name to a gaudy hooker. Keep your powder dry and your blaster clean and oiled."

  The solitary "Amen" came from J.B.

  Ryan leaned back uncomfortably, thinking that he'd actually never sat in a comfortable seat in any church, anywhere in Deathlands. It seemed to be an inevitable, integral part of any religious ceremony.

  Krysty insinuated her strong hand into his, squeezing his fingers.

  "All right?" she breathed. Ryan responded by tightening his grip on her hand.

  Wolfe was still fulminating on, painting a bloody picture of Christ the guerrilla fighter and survivalist. "We are as one with Him. One with the double-cross and the flame. One with all who are at one. And against anyone who opposes Him or stands against the Children of the Rock."

  Another chorus of "amens" was even louder than before, seeming to make the roof beams quiver.

  "We have here, Lord, seven outlanders. Two known to us from the olden days when they walked a different path. Now they seek the light and we welcome them. All that remains is the testing, and this shall be done before all brothers and sisters at noon tomorrow."

  There was a pedal harmonium in one corner of the church, played by a stout woman in her thirties, with hair almost as red as Krysty's. The hymn, bellowed lustily by the entire congregation, was an old frontier tune, familiar to everyone there: "Guide My Bullet Precious Lord."

  When it was over, they all filed out into the clean, pine-scented afternoon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mildred decided that Doc would be far better off, in his sickness, spending the afternoon warm under a pile of blankets in their hut. She arranged for one of the ville's older women to look in on him, and provide him with plenty of drinks of hot lemon and honey.

  "Dehydration," she said. "That's the biggest danger when you're running a temperature. I think it's some kind of Sierra influenza. You got all the symptoms that I'd expect—trembling and stiffness and soreness in the joints, feeling hot and cold at the same time. Sweating."

  "Perspiring, madam, if you please. Horses sweat and men perspire."

  "While ladies merely glow." Mildred grinned at him. "Sure. I know that. Couple of days feeling like death and you should start getting better."

  "How about the testing?" Dean asked. "Doc'll let us all down if he's sick."

  He was greeted with an angry harrumphing sound from the old man. The boy was eager to be out into the fresh air. Ryan had agreed that they could carry out something of a recce. They'd checked with Wolfe, who'd been happy to grant them his permission. He'd offered them a half dozen of his finest sec men to escort them among the monstrous trees.

  "No. Be fine, thanks," Ryan replied. "Be back here before dusk."

  "Watch out for Apaches," Josiah Steele warned. "Constant thorn in our side."

  "They'll likely see you, before you spot any sign of them," Owsley added. "Nobody like Mescalero for hiding."

  Ryan laughed, untroubled. "Lots of them are good as the Mescalero at an ambush—Cheyenne, Oglala, Pawnee, Huron, Creek, Arapaho. You name me any rad-blasted tribe, and I'll have been attacked by them. Dense forest like this, any stupe stickie could hide well enough."

  "Hide a cavalry regiment," J.B. added, slinging the Uzi. "Herd of buffalo. Platoon of grandmothers. Township of deaf beavers. Whole army of par-blind priests."

  Owsley spit in the dirt and turned away from them. Steele watched his colleague depart. "Not a good man for an enemy," he said quietly.

  "I already figured that," Ryan stated tersely, instantly regretting it. "Sorry, Brother Steele. Didn't mean to snap at you. Grateful for the warning."

  "Sure. Take care out there, now. Get back and eat well and sleep good. Need to be at your best for the testing tomorrow afternoon."

  "GOD'S COUNTRY," Ryan said, sucking in several deep, chest-filling breaths. They'd gone about a mile and a half from the center of Hopeville, leaving behind the oppressive, crazed fanaticism of the Children of the Rock. The weather was perfect, with just the faintest breeze from the north stirring the smaller branches of the great pines. After starting along the ribboned blacktop, Ryan led the companions toward the west, up a spur trail that showed only the hoofmarks of a herd of deer.

  "Seems like the hot spot's in this direction," he said, checking with his miniature rad counter, which had shifted imperceptibly from orangy red to a reddish orange.

  A tiny mountain quail, followed by eight bundles of downy feathers, scampered across the narrow side track, ignoring the interlopers into its territory. "Looking for game?" Jak asked. Ryan shook his head. "No need. Seem real well supplied back at the ville."

  They crossed a vivid strip of open meadow, surrounded by the towering black corpses of burned-out trees. The grass was lush, speckled with a variety of colorful plants. Krysty identified mimulus and collinsia, with the delicate orange of columbine and the flaming daggers of the Indian paintbrush.

&nb
sp; "God's country," Mildred said, stretching her arms out wide, smiling broadly for sheer pleasure of being alive. "Air like this should be nectar for poor old Doc."

  "You worried about him?" Ryan asked.

  "Not exactly. There's this bizarre temporal anomaly about how old he really is and how old he seems to be. Two totally different figures."

  "I always think of him as being old." Dean waved his hand to disturb a swarm of tiny gnats that had gathered around his head.

  Mildred nodded. "Sure thing. Looks to be somewhere around the middle of his seventies."

  "Eighties on a bad day," Krysty said.

  "No. Nineties on a real bad day," Mildred insisted.

  "How old is he? There was all that time-jumping fucked up his body and mind."

  Ryan had often thought about that particular puzzle and had the answer ready. "Born Theophilus Algernon Tanner, South Strafford, Vermont, February 14 in the year of Our Lord 1868. Married his beloved Emily in June of 1891. Children came along for them in 1893 and 1895."

  "Rachel and Jolyon," J.B. added, fanning at the warm air with the brim of his fedora.

  "Right. Then those sick whitecoat bastards time-trawled him forward to 1998, 102 years into his future."

  "Not surprising his brain's gotten scrambled." Mildred took a drink from one of the water containers that they'd been given by Steele.

  Dean cursed at the insects. "Are we moving on?"

  "Sure, Dean, and there's no need to curse. From my rad counter, it can't be that far to the source of the leak."

  Krysty bit her lip, worried. "Is that a good idea, lover? Going on? What do you think, J.B.?"

  "Reading's not really high enough to present us with a serious, immediate health threat." J.B. checked the small counter on the lapel of his coat again. "It looks like a long-term, slow-leak hot spot."

  "Men exposed at Chernobyl—that was a deadly serious Russian meltdown toward the end of the twentieth century—were only out unprotected for a minute or so, trying to do some instant repair work. And they were nearly all dead within months. Weeks, some of them."

  Everyone looked at Mildred, startled into silence by her information.

  Ryan sniffed. "That so? Heard the name. Didn't know it was that ferocious."

  "There are different kinds of radiation sickness."

  She stared at the towering trees all around them.

  "Some's quick and some's slow. Noticed quite a few of the men and women in the ville showed signs of slow—hair loss, sores on their faces, especially around the mouth, bleeding gums, joint stiffness and problems in mobility. And, as we already know, there's sterility for men and for women. So, no kids in Hopeville."

  "And then they have to steal from the Apaches," Ryan said. "Sounds like what we remember about Joshua Wolfe. Trust him about so far—" he held his thumb and index finger an inch apart "—and no farther. He wouldn't have an urge to take young Dean, I'd guess."

  "I'd shoot him, Dad. Already lost one parent, and I didn't like being away from you when I was at the Brody School."

  "No one will ever take you from me—you know that, son." The light of love glowed brightly in Ryan's eye.

  "You think we're safe visiting this old 'complex,' lover? And how about hanging around in the ville, so close to a hot spot. Might be safer to move on."

  Ryan turned to Krysty. "We aren't staying long. Couple of days or so. With Doc being ill, it's mebbe better to keep to where he can be looked after."

  "Still not happy."

  Jak had wandered a little way ahead of where they'd all stopped, calling back, "Think see it!"

  IT WAS MUCH SMALLER than most of the other redoubts that they'd encountered, scattered throughout Deathlands. Any thoughts that it might have concealed a gateway were immediately dashed. There was every sign it was a place that had been hastily built in the last days before skydark.

  The overgrown remains of a tarmac roundabout, edged with disintegrating concrete posts about three feet high, stood in long grass, reminding Ryan of the grave markers that he'd once seen dotting the abandoned battlefield of the Little Bighorn.

  The entrance to the redoubt gaped open, one of the double sec doors lying, rusting, in the dirt. The other hung by only one of the set of massive hinges. Even from thirty yards away, they could all smell the dank air.

  Krysty sighed, closing her eyes in an expression of distaste. "Almost feel the wickedness here," she said. "I know it's imagination, but I swear that I can actually see the radiation poisoning seeping out of the black cavern, like a great slow cloud of evil."

  Ryan left her, walking to stand in the cold shadows of the entrance. He peered into the blackness, listening to the dismal sound of water dripping from the arched roof, some distance inside.

  J.B. joined him, taking off his glasses to polish them on his sleeve. "Dark night! Smell of death. Not sure there's much point in going on to recce much farther. Reckon we've seen most of what we need to see."

  It was obvious that the redoubt had been completely stripped when it was abandoned. The inside was bare and empty, glistening with a fluorescent green moss that seemed to cover all the walls and stone floor.

  Ryan pointed to a place higher up the side of the hill, where there had been a vast earth shift, probably dating from very early in the days after the heavens were clouded with thousands of missiles and the people died. Dead trees leaned sideways, their rotting roots exposed to the sunlight.

  "Quake probably broke it open inside. Set the main nuke-power source to leaking. If we went exploring, we'd probably find it cracked wide."

  Jak, Dean and Mildred joined them, leaving Krysty standing alone in the bright sunshine.

  "Going in?" Dean asked, his high voice muffled by the echoing space ahead of them.

  "No." Ryan studied the contours of the land above and around the entrance to the old redoubt. "Shame, really," he said. "Look at that."

  J.B. read his mind. "Yeah. It would have been real easy to do."

  Mildred smiled at him. "You two are like identical twins, some of the time. Symbiosis. Knowing precisely what the other one's thinking even before you speak. It's kind of irritating to a mere outsider like me."

  "I was thinking how simple it would have been to have brought down the whole mountainside with a handful of plas-ex," Ryan explained.

  The Armorer put his arm tenderly around Mildred's shoulders. "If they'd done it years ago, they'd have sealed off the rad leak."

  "Oh, I get it. And then none of them would have been sick. And they could have carried on breeding. How different life could've been for them."

  "No fighting Apaches," Jak added.

  "Thriving community, instead of one hanging on the edge of extinction by broken fingernails." Ryan turned away. "All too late now."

  Krysty called out to them. "I really don't like this place, friends. Can we get away now?"

  Even as she spoke, as though nature were sympathetic to her feelings, a great bank of cloud came sweeping over the tops of the pines, from the north, veiling the sunshine, dropping the temperature and bringing the threat of rain.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was still pouring. The cloudburst had begun almost as soon as they left the deserted ruins of the redoubt, a cold, driving, penetrating downpour that slanted in from the north. The sky had turned leaden, all trace of blue vanishing, the sun disappearing behind a great bank of cloud. The temperature fell by twenty degrees in as many minutes.

  A dank mist appeared, clinging to the upper branches of the enormous trees, so that the sky-scraping tops became totally enveloped in gray white.

  By the time they caught the scent of the cooking fires of Hopeville, Ryan and the others were completely soaked through to the skin.

  They found that Doc was fast asleep. The woman bidden to care for him was sitting, dozing, by a smoldering pile of embers, her breath smelling of whiskey. She woke with a start as they came dripping in, blinking at them.

  "Old gentleman's been a tad poorly," she stammere
d. "Slept some after…after he'd taken a nip of something to fight the fever off from him."

  Mildred leaned over Doc, laying a hand on his forehead, wincing. "He's burning up," she said. "It's not the kind of fever to take you up the hill on the death cart, but enough to make you feel pretty damned rough."

  "Anything you can give him?" Ryan asked. "Mebbe Wolfe has some drugs."

  "Could ask. I guess that—"

  "I'll go ask," Jak said, having roughly toweled some of the rain from his parchment hair. "Back in minute."

  He slipped out into the murky cold, vanishing like a wraith in the darkening mist.

  The woman was sent scurrying out of the hut, and Krysty piled some fresh, dry kindling onto the fire, bringing it back to a healthy blaze. They all quickly peeled off their sodden clothes, drying themselves by the flames, shrouded in blankets as they stood around the fireplace.

  The noise and light dragged Doc back from his sleep. He sat up in bed looking startled and surprisingly fragile. "By the Three Kennedys! What malign, monkish figures are forgathered here at their vile ministering?"

  "Only us, Doc," Ryan said reassuringly, seeing the fear depart from the wrinkled face. "How goes it with you?"

  "Ah, it passes, dear Ryan." He coughed. "Would there be any liquid refreshment of any sort available? My throat resembles the front garden of Death Valley, Scotty. Did I ever tell you of the occasion that I was stranded out near Sweetwater? I recall a wheel had come off our trusty Conestoga. No…?" Another rasping cough. "I fear that I am dry, barren, arid, parched. Do you begin to get the picture, my good friends?"

  "Yeah, we see," Mildred said, pouring some water from an earthenware jug into a chipped goblet of colored glass, which she handed to Doc.

  "Thank you, madam." He took several deep gulps, spilling some down his chest. "Ah, that is so much better. I confess that I feel a few notches below my usual effervescent best. Perhaps a little rest would be of benefit?"

  "Sure." Ryan was checking his blaster, sitting cross-legged on his bed. Jak reappeared in the doorway, empty-handed. "Anything to help?"