by James Axler
Finnegan was eager to tell Ryan and Krysty about Jak's prowess in the underground battle. "I never seen nothing like the bleached-out little fucker. Like fucking poetry in motion, Ryan. One after another, like skewering fish in a pisspot."
"Was easy. They came one at time, so killed 'em one at time." Jak's red eyes sparkled at the memory.
"You gut-rip 'em?" Krysty asked.
"No. Barbs on spears catch clothes. Snag on furs. No time rip clear. Had to stab at necks and faces."
"I swear he hit three out of the fucking six right splat in the middle of the fucking eye. They was down and thrashing in a row."
"Got no more brains than 'gator shit," Jak muttered. "Came together and I'd been chilled."
"I couldn't get my blaster to waste any of 'em for him. An' Doc and J.B. was bursting out the water, all pop-eyed. Real stiff in that river. Trying to tug you down and under."
"Sure," Ryan said. "We know it, Finn."
"It got fucking weird, you know. The light was real dark. Most times I could see his hair, like a whirlwind of fucking snow. Hear them screaming. The blade ripping them open. And the blood spurting every which way round the tunnel. I tell you…" His voice faded away into mute admiration.
There was a silence. Doc Tanner was hugging the trembling Lori, both of them still dripping muddy water from their new fur coats. J.B. squinted up at the sky.
"Could be a storm. Road down yonder. Mebbe best we head for it."
"ANYONE GOT ANY PYROTABS?"
There was a general shaking of heads and shrugging of shoulders. Jak looked at J.B. "What are they?"
"Pyrotabs? Self-igniting pellets. Start a fire quick and easy."
Ryan whistled between his teeth. "Going to get cold in a while. Need a fire."
"I got matches. Always carry 'em." Jak fumbled in the pockets of his jacket, pulling out various small, intriguing packages, most of them wrapped in clear plastic to keep them from getting wet.
"What's that?" Krysty said, reaching out as fast as a striking rattler to snatch a packet of fine white powder off the boy's palm.
"Give it back."
"Careful, son," Ryan warned, sensing trouble in the way the albino's body had tensed.
"Gimme, Krysty."
The girl eased open the self-seal top and dipped the tip of her index finger into the powder. She raised the finger to her lips then pulled a face. "Jolt."
"Can I try?" Lori asked. "I like jolt. Quint had some. And crack. Jolt was best."
"No," Krysty said. "Jolt's the worst. Mix of heroin and coke. Lift you up and knock you down all in one hard hit."
"Quint, my husband, said jolt was good. Gave me a lot all the time."
"Yeah," Finnegan said quietly. "And we know all about that poisonous little double-poor bastard."
"Give it back," Jak repeated. "I can handle it. Only do some now and then."
Ryan held his hand out, and Krysty put the packet in his fingers. They were all sitting on a wide ledge, overlooking the valley below. The sky was changing from pallid blue to vivid gold, with crimson chem-storms threatening from the west.
"You journey with us, fight with us, then you live by our rules. You don't like it, then get out, Jak. One rule is no drugs."
"I can—" he began.
"Handle it? I know. I've seen a lot of men and women say that. And I've seen a lot of fucking stoned corpses." Ryan's voice rose in anger. "You mess around with your head and your reflexes go, kid. Your reflexes go and I don't want you at my back when the muties come in at us. I want someone clean."
"So you're going to throw over cliff?" Jak asked with sullen anger.
"Wrong, Jak," Ryan replied, holding out the package. "You throw it over. And any more jolt you got on you."
"Don't have more."
"Then throw this away."
The boy reached for it, letting it lie for a moment on the white palm of his hand as he shook his head back to clear his hair from his eyes. "Waste, Ryan. Paid good creds for this."
"Waste of jack then, wasn't it?" Finnegan said.
They all watched as the slim-built boy rose to his feet and stood a moment on the edge of the drop. He peeled back the top of the plastic and then shook it so that the white hallucinogenic powder exploded like a tiny cloud in front of him, the rising wind dispersing it almost instantly.
"Satisfied, Ryan?"
"Yeah."
There was a light fluttering of rain. Toward the northern peaks they saw a jagged stripe of silver lightning, then another, the rumble of the thunder taking several seconds to reach them.
"I figure that'll pass by," J.B. said. "But night's not far off."
"You done a sighting on where we are?" Ryan asked. The Armorer carried a neat collapsible sextant with him, which could be used to determine their position. He also had an almost photographic memory for any map or plan. Once he'd seen it, then it was locked away deep inside his formidable memory.
"Yeah. Just 'fore you came down to join us. Where we figured."
"Oregon?"
"Near as I can tell we're to the south of it. Those big snow-tops were called the Cascades. See that spread of trees?" He pointed to where sharp-topped pines speckled the hillsides. "Called Rogue River Forest. Up to the north there used to be a famous place. Big, deep lake in the middle of an old volcano. Called Crater Lake. Probably nuked out of sight now."
"Radio message came from the north," Krysty said. "Mebbe we could head that way?"
"Good as any other," Ryan replied. "First thing to find is somewheres to shelter for the night."
Krysty joined Jak on the edge of the drop where he was peering down into the valley below. She shaded her eyes with her hand, holding back her coiling crimson hair.
"Looks like an old blacktop down there. Winds around the end of that small lake. Some kind of building. Can't make out more." Krysty squinted, then shook her head.
"Can we get down?" Finn asked.
Jak pointed. "Sure. There's a goat path or bear track round to the right. Comes out above the scree, near that stand of pinons."
THE PATH WAS UNEVEN, and several times one or another of the group stumbled and tripped. Doc Tanner found it the hardest going, relying on the steady arm of Lori to help him. On a level part he slowed to walk alongside Ryan.
"Time was folks paid good jack to do this sort of thing. Hiking they called it. Taking the air. Personally, I would happily dig deep into my own humble purse to pay not to have to hike these mountains."
As they progressed, the chem-clouds gathered in a furious array over the mountains, sending great stabbing sheets of lightning to burst against the dripping rocks. The Armorer had been correct in his forecasting. The storm was raging some forty or fifty miles away to the north, showing no signs of moving closer. Night was crouching to the east, ready to spring and spread its body across the land.
The path zigzagged across the slope, bending and twisting sharply. The stones underfoot were dangerously slippery. A red fox picked its way daintily across the trail in front of them, showing no fear. Generally this was a sign that there weren't that many human beings around. Far above, a solitary raven soared, riding a thermal over the valley, its beak catching the glint of the dying sun.
As they drew nearer to the road that curled lazily below them, the harsh rocks gave way to patches of scrub and meadow. The sides of the path became lined with a profusion of wild plants—the gold and cream of the butter-and-eggs flowers with the crimson spikes of the Indian paintbrush. They passed tall stems of firewood, with magenta flowers nodding and dancing on either side, some at least fifteen feet tall. Across the valley was a great swath of purple Oregon fleabane.
The distant chattering of a stream that flowed, white over boulders, along the edge of the narrow highway, became audible. Jak, who was leading the way as they neared the road, suddenly jumped to one side, gasping in shock as a sinuous garter snake weaved across the trail right under his feet.
"Likely wouldn't have harmed you," Finnegan said, laughing.
"Wasn't going t'find out," the boy retorted.
"IT'S AN OLD GAS STATION," J.B., who'd taken up the lead, called out. The rectangular building they'd seen from high above stood squatly on its own. Most of the windows were broken, and one corner of its flat roof had fallen in. The pumps stood undamaged, like robot sentinels on guard against intruders.
"No nuke damage," Ryan said, addressing the remark to Doc Tanner.
"This far north and west… it wasn't bombed so badly as other parts. Not many air bases or radar stations. Nothing like that up here in the mountains. Most of the missiles they used would have been low-yield. No point in dropping dirty heads here. Not 'nough people. Probably hit water and highways. Sever the communications, and the folks would have mostly moved out. Or died."
J.B. pulled out his miniaturized rad counter, checking in all directions. "Hot spot over to the east. And some action north. Nothing too dangerous. Doesn't rate even an orange."
"If'n that roof's safe, it could be a good place to spend the night. Only one door, at the front," Finn said.
Lori turned to Krysty. "This is like where I came for—I mean, came from. Caves and houses from old times that were used by bears to sleep and live."
"Best be careful then," Krysty said.
"We're always careful, aren't we, Finn?" Ryan asked.
The stocky mercenary winked. "Sure. Do bears shit in the fucking woods, huh?"
But there were no bears in the abandoned gas station.
It was a single-story building, two-thirds of it given over to a workshop, the rest an office. The sliding door to the work area was closed, but a smaller, half-glass door was open. Ryan approached it, while Finn and J.B. went around the outside. Only when they'd circled the building, reporting that it looked deserted and safe, did he risk entry.
The hinges creaked and broken glass crunched underfoot. Animals or humans had apparently stripped the place bare. A pile of windblown dried leaves from the aspens across the blacktop rested in one corner. There was an open cash register on a counter and an empty Coke tin against the far wall.
"Through here?" Finn said, pointing to the far door that probably opened into the workshop.
"Sure. Slow and easy," Ryan warned. "Krysty. You and Jak stay here and keep watch outside. Not a good place to get caught in."
In a narrow corridor there were two rest rooms marked Guys and Dolls in faded blue paint. Finn pushed each door open.
"Shouldn't you have knocked? Might have been someone in the ladies' room," J.B. said.
Finn shook his head. "Anyone still in there from the time of the long chill would have the worst case of shit-block in the history of the fucking world."
There was nobody there.
Nor in the workshop. In the dim half-light of the gathering dusk, they could see that all the tools had been removed from their places on long wooden racks. The floor was stained with long-dried pools of lube oil. The five of them stood for several long, silent moments. "Shame it's empty," J.B. said.
"You were hoping for a mint-condition Cadillac with velvet upholstery, all greased and ready to drive away?" Ryan said, grinning. His grin spread when the Armorer threw him the finger.
"Let's go back now. This place smells deader'n a beaver hat," Ryan said. "Keep a single guard, tight perimeter outside."
"Sure," J.B. agreed. "Could do with a fire in here. Coupla broken window up high'll take out smoke."
From one of his sewn pockets, Jak removed some matches, dry-sealed. But there was precious little wood to burn. Outside there were some sizable branches that would go well once they had a fire blazing, but they needed some kind of kindling.
Lori pointed to an old calendar on the office wall, above the till. The years had bleached away its color, but it still showed the month of January 2001. "A small token of appreciation to Grannoch Pass Service Station from the suppliers of Xanthus Power Tools" was printed on it, beneath a sepia picture of the interior of a Victorian mansion. Doc stood in front of it, and Ryan joined him.
"Thinking how well that'd burn, Doc?"
To his surprise, he saw that the old man was weeping, silent tears coursing through the gray stubble on his lined cheeks.
"Hey, Doc, what's wrong?"
"What's up, Doc, is what you should say, Ryan. That was the old joke. Buggy the Bunny, he was called. Something like that. I'm sorry. You must forgive an old fool's streak of maudlin sentimentality. It's the picture."
"You mean like wanting old times back?"
"More than you know, my dear fellow. Oh, more than you know. That picture brings back such a flood of memories. Oh, the days and evenings with dear Emily."
"Who's Emily?"
They were alone. The others were scavenging around outside before darkness made it too dangerous to move in the open. Ryan looked up at the calendar, wondering what had triggered the old-timer off on one of his lack-brained trips into the past.
The calendar had a name on it. Currier and Ives. There was a large fireplace in the print, with logs blazing merrily in it, and there was a pine tree in a tub, decorated with ornamental candles in a way that seemed dangerous to Ryan. Pretty parcels were scattered around the bottom of the tree, each wrapped in bright paper and tied with ribbons of silk. The mantel was busy with vases and spelter statues of men on horseback, and over the mantel was a large painting. When Ryan peered more closely at the painting, he saw that it was a reproduction of the main picture—a fireplace with a tree in a tub. And over the mantel was a picture of a room with a fire and a tree and a picture over the mantel…
Doc Tanner was close at his elbow, looking at the way each painted image was reproduced and diminished, drawing the eye in and in and in through each miniature until the detail blurred.
"Who is Emily, Ryan?"
"Yeah. Heard you mention the name 'fore this, Doc. Someone you know?"
"I knew her, Ryan. A woman of excellent wit and beauty. One day I will tell you… But not now. It was this picture. I can hear those logs as they crackle and spit. Smell the freshness of the pine needles. Hear the excited laughter of young children as they wait to open the presents that jolly Saint Nicholas has sent them. The family parlor at Christmas. Damp moss and dry leaves. Belladonna, macassar oil and parsley. Peppermint oil and ipecac for those who had dined well but not wisely upon the turkey and the plum pudding." There were fresh tears again, glistening on his cheeks.
Embarrassed by this flood of memories, Ryan turned to look out the broken panes of glass to where the rest of the group was gathering wood to burn. And yet he was still deeply puzzled by the things Doc had said. Things that Ryan had never known. Things that seemed to him to come from such an antique past that it wasn't conceivable that Doc Tanner could recall them from personal memory.
It wasn't possible.
DESPITE ALL THEIR EFFORTS, the fire was proving stubborn to light. Most of the wood was damp and green, and nearly all the kindling they found was also wet. At Krysty's suggestion they tried the calendar, though Doc Tanner came close to objecting. But the card proved too thick to do more than lie there sullenly smoldering.
"How 'bout that?" Jak Lauren asked, pointing to the wood-framed counter that was built into the wall.
"Break it up, Whitey," Finnegan said. "Give it plenty of fucking boot and it might splinter dry."
The skinny little youth walked up and patted the solid structure, running his hands over it and testing the thickness of the wood and the amount of give when he leaned on it.
He took a couple of paces back, closing his pink eyes for a moment in concentration. The other six watched him closely. Ryan in particular was fascinated that such a frail body could harness such devastating power. It wasn't anything mystical, in the way that Krysty could fold her mind inward and draw on the force of the Earth Mother, Gaia. This was simply a great skill.
Jak gave a single, explosive grunt and lashed out with his foot, the whole front of the counter caved in, splitting lengthways as if a chainsaw had ripped through it. Witho
ut a pause, like a dancer, Jak wheeled on the other foot and kicked again. This time the entire left side fell away from the wall, leaving only one part still attached. A third kick demolished that.
"Fucking fan-fucking-tastic!" Finnegan whooped. "This'll burn real good."
"What's that?" Lori asked.
"Where?" J.B. said, moving to help Finn clear away the shattered splinters.
"There. The hole in the wall. It was hidden before by the wood."
The Armorer stepped over the wreckage of the counter and stooped where the girl was pointing. Then he spotted the shadowy hole that was no bigger than a couple of house bricks. "Something here."
"What?"
"Box. No, a tin, Ryan."
"Could be boobied, J.B. Watch it."
"Too well hid. Looks like it's been here since the big fires."
There was the scraping of metal on concrete as he eased the tin box from its hiding place and laid it on the floor near the shards of wood. They gathered around it, their need for a fire momentarily forgotten, even though the temperature had fallen so fast and so low that the gas station seemed filled with the mist of their warm breath.
"Got a lock," J.B. said.
"I'll blast the bastard apart. One round from the Beretta'll open it up like cracking an egg," Finnegan said eagerly.
"Why not just try and lift the lid first?" Ryan suggested. It was open.
J.B. looked inside, then handed it to Jak. "Here, kid. You found it. You can have it." He winked over his shoulder at Ryan. "I saw it," Lori said.
"I'll split it with you," the albino replied, carrying it to where the poor fire coughed and spluttered fitfully. It was the only light they had, apart from the pallid moon that sailed above them in a sky speckled by the remains of the chem-storm.
"What is it?" Finnegan asked.
It was a wad of paper. A couple of hundred small sheets, around five inches by three, with the rotted remains of an elastic band around them. Jak took them out, riffling them through his fingers. Dust flew off their edges, and they made a dry, flaking sound. Ryan suddenly guessed what it was. "Open them up," he said.
"Pictures," Lori said. "Pictures and numbers. I can do numbers. There's a ten and that's a hundred and a twenty and another ten."