James Axler - Deathlands 27 - Ground Zero

by Ground Zero [lit]

  In considerably less than a minute, the food was almost totally obscured.

  "There," he said contentedly, sitting back at his place. "Now you can all help yourselves to give this dreck a passing, temporary resemblance to real food." The condiments and spices were passed around, most of Ryan's group helping themselves to some of them, though there was a deal of suspicious sniffing and dipping of fingers to taste what was in each container.

  "Cumin," Mildred said. "Tarragon." She licked her lips after trying the light green paste, freckled with seeds. "Ah, that's good hot chili. Sort I used to get sent to me by an aunt in Chimayo." There was also a plain pepper mill that she used to sprinkle the minute black grains over the unappetizing meat. "Thanks, Baron Sharpe. It surely makes a difference."

  She whispered across to Dean, "Go easy on some of them, son. Specially the green chili. Make your lips and tongue feel like they've been blasted with molten glass."

  Ryan had also tried the chili, and he watched in stunned admiration as Baron Sharpe tucked into the equivalent of a couple of pounds of mixed spices, including a good quarter pint of the chili.

  The brutally handsome face of the blond man was quickly streaming with sweat, pouring down his cheeks and dripping from his chin and from the tip of his nose. His complexion grew so flushed that Mildred muttered to Joaquin, sitting on her far side, that some tumblers of water would be a help for everyone.

  Sharpe seized the jug as it was laid on the table and drained it in a single, gasping, gulping draft. "Better, well, better," he panted. "More of it."

  Everyone ate in silence, uncomfortable at the baron's unpredictable lack of mental balance.

  Doc broke the munching stillness. "This proves what I always say."

  "What's that?" Mildred asked.

  "Food is killing the art of conversation."

  IT WAS CLOSE TO ELEVEN, and most of Ryan's party had retired to their beds for the night. He and Krysty had opened the windows of their room, allowing cool damp air to blow away the mustiness. Now they were sitting together by the casement, content to be quiet in each other's company.

  There had been a piercing cry from out in the night a half hour earlier, but there had been nothing to be seen. Except for lights shining in what seemed to be the rear part of the building that housed Sharpe's zoo.

  The sharp knock on their door made both of them jump. Ryan stood and walked across the room, picking up the SIG-Sauer and cocking it.

  "Who is it?"

  "Morgan. Josh Morgan."

  "Yeah?" Ryan kept the door locked and double-bolted. "What do you want?"

  "Got an old woman in the infirmary, asking to see you."

  "Why?"

  "Can I come in, Ryan? Don't want to shout this all around the ville."

  "You alone?"

  "Sure."

  Holding the blaster in his left hand, Ryan slowly slid back the bolts and turned the ornate brass key. He opened the door a couple of inches, keeping his foot set against the bottom of it, seeing the tall bearded sec man standing anxiously outside. The flickering lights showed that the scars on his face from the stickies were already healing.

  "Come in, Morgan."

  Ryan closed the door again, carefully locking it again. The sec man watched him.

  "You take care, don't you, Cawdor?"

  "Living is taking care. What is it?"

  "We heard word from Clinkerscales at the Lincoln Inn about what happened. The young woman's a doomie, isn't she?"

  There was no point in denying it. "She claims to be," Ryan replied cautiously.

  "Caused a riot. Blood knee deep on the floor."

  "Ankle deep," Krysty said.

  Morgan nodded. "Baron doesn't know it yet. I'm the only one knows. Word doesn't get around the Hole too much. Better Sharpie doesn't know."

  "Why?"

  The sec man stared directly at Ryan. "I owe you my life. But the baron could take an interest in Emma if he knew she had true mutie powers."

  "But why should-" Krysty started.

  Morgan held up a hand. "No! I'll go so far along the road for you. No farther. But this is only a part of what I've come for. Just take it as a warning. Clinkerscales also told me about you and John Dix riding with the Trader. How he met up with you, years back, and all. I never actually saw the Trader, but I heard plenty of tales of him."

  "Most men have," Ryan stated.

  "The old woman in the infirmary said she used to ride with him. Wanted a word with you, Cawdor."

  "And J.B.?"

  "Just you. Says you'll know why."

  "What's her name?"

  "Won't give it. She's real triple sick, Cawdor. Best take a couple coins to lay on her eyes. Hours at most. Mebbe minutes. No time to waste on talk."

  Ryan rubbed a finger down the side of his nose, considering the request, automatically looking for the possibility of a trap, rejecting it.

  "Right," he said.

  Ryan turned to Krysty. "Keep the door safe, lover. Go to bed if I'm more than an hour." She kissed him on the cheek. "Take care."

  MORGAN LED HIM silently through the rambling ville, past pairs of patrolling guards, all of them well trained and alert, making Ryan reconsider his original thought that it would probably be easy to take the ville.

  "Nearly there, Cawdor." They were the only words that Josh Morgan said to him until they reached a half-glass door with the painted sign over it, proclaiming that it was the infirmary.

  "You coming in, Morgan?" Ryan asked.

  "No. This is one ball you have to carry on your own, outlander. Woman's in a private room beyond the main ward. Nobody else in there. Bell by the bed if you need to call for help."

  It looked for a moment as though he were going to say something else, but he turned on his heel and walked back along the shadowed passage.

  Ryan opened the door and entered the infirmary, finding himself in a silent dormitory, with five beds to a side. An occasional light glowed dimly on the walls, showing the stark folded sheets and the fluffed pillows.

  The air tasted of antiseptic and sickness.

  Ryan moved slowly, like a one-eyed ghost, his hand resting on the butt of the P-226 SIG-Sauer. His combat boots whispered on the polished linoleum floor.

  Blinds were drawn over the windows, deepening the effect of an undersea cavern.

  At the end of the ward, Ryan saw the corridor stretched ahead of him for another fifty or sixty feet, with several doors opening off on both sides. The first of them stood ajar, showing an empty office. The door opposite was locked.

  A narrow strip of pale fire glittered coldly from under the next door along on the right-hand side, and Ryan paused outside it, fingers reaching for the cold brass handle and turning it.

  The light was on above the single bed. The solitary window was closed, the shutter thrown back, showing only a polished blackness. The room smelled of death.

  Ryan's first thought was that the mysterious woman who claimed to have known him had already slipped peacefully into the big sleep. Her eyes were closed, the toothless mouth sagging open. He had no doubt that Morgan had been misinformed. Ryan had an excellent memory for faces, and he knew immediately that this skeletal old woman, looking to be closer to ninety than eighty, had never ridden the war wags with him.

  He was about to turn and walk away when the veiled eyes opened and looked at him, and a croaking, feathery voice spoke.

  "Never used to walk easy away from me, Ryan."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "Oh, fireblast! Jenny? Jenny Bolam, is it you?"

  Jenny Bolam had been nav officer on War Wag Two when Ryan had joined Trader. She had been no more than four or five years older than him, which would make her half the age of the animated skull lying in the bed.

  "Changed a bit, have I?"

  Ryan found his mouth had gone as dry as desert sand, and he cleared his throat, finding that he couldn't set his mind to any lie that would have any point.

  "Some, Jenny, some."

  "Sil
ver-tongued bastard! Like always."

  "Where did you hear I was around?"

  "Lincoln Inn. Clinkerscales has been a good friend. Didn't know of my connection with Trader. And you. Gave me a bed to die in. Then there was the shooting, and he told me about a one-eyed son of a bitch with black curly hair and a chilling way to him. Knew it could only be one man in all Deathlands."

  It was terminal rad cancer. The signs under the pitiless overhead light were unmistakable.

  Jenny Bolam had been plump and blond, with eyes as bright and blue as a summer sky in Montana, full-breasted with muscular thighs and firm buttocks.

  Ryan had known and loved every inch of that fabulous body, and Jenny had encouraged him, showing him things and teaching him ways that he'd never known before. Never even dreamed of. Offered herself as an instructor, making him aware that "wham, bam, thank you, ma'am," wasn't good enough, and that sex was a two-way street.

  "Thinking back, are you, Ryan?" She made a feeble sound that might have been a laugh. "Times past, not worth forgetting."

  "You were marrying, Jenny. Ville we traded for some mortar shells."

  The head nodded slowly. The woman was almost completely bald, with just a few strands of fine silvery hair hanging limp over the ears.

  "Hanging Tree, in old Tennessee. You always had a good memory, Ryan."

  "What happened?"

  The eyes closed and opened again. "Pour us a drink of water, will you, lad?"

  Ryan went to the side of the bed, struggling to hide his revulsion at the overwhelming stink of racing decay that seeped from Jenny.

  There was a thick glass tumbler and a jug of water with a circle of beaded muslin draped over it to keep away the insects. Ryan half filled the glass and offered it to Jenny, who smiled, showing the stumps of yellowed teeth between ulcerated gums. "Can't hold things steady anymore. If you could."

  "Sure."

  He leaned over the woman and put one arm behind her shoulders, feeling the frail sharpness of bone beneath the taut skin, easing her upright and holding the drink for her.

  His face must have showed the shock at how unbelievably frail she had become.

  After three or four sips she gestured for him to take the water away. "Lost some weight, haven't I, Ryan? Well, you always said I had a few ounces too much meat on my bones. Now that's all I am. Just bones."

  "What happened?"

  "Big question. I married. Good man. Made shoes and boots. We had four children. One died at birth. Another went to cholera. My husband was helping in a harvest and a tractor went over on him. Crushed his ribs and lungs, and he drowned on his own blood. Third child, sweet little Billy, was sickly. Left him a fire to keep warm while I went out to. to bring in some jack. House went like a torch. Just me and my firstborn. His name was Ryan, too. Can't think why."

  She was breathing hard, the sheet across her shrunken breasts rising and falling quickly. "Don't talk, Jenny. Save your strength. We can-"

  She held up a frail, clawed hand. "No shit between us, lad. Never was. Too late for it now. Ryan was stabbed to death in a gaudy brawl. Went there as a bully-minder. Fifteen, he was, but a big strong boy. Been a downhill blacktop since then, lad."

  "I'm sorry, Jenny. Empty words, but I mean them. I'm truly sorry for it."

  "Worked in frontier pesthole near an old hot spot. Hotter than I thought. Got the cancer that's eatin' its way through my guts to my heart, Ryan. But what of you? And what of Trader?"

  "Been around. Traveled a lot with John Dix, the Armorer. You recall him?"

  "Some. Married, lad? Always thought that you'd make the worst husband between Portland, Maine, and Portland, Oregon."

  "No. Not spliced up. Got a woman. Good woman. Things about her remind me of you, Jenny. Got a boy. Dean. Twelve years old. No, eleven."

  She nodded, her rheumy eyes narrowing. "Settle down, 'fore it's too late, Ryan. You'll be a guest of the old man with the midnight cloak for a long time. Do it."

  "Been thinking on it, Jenny. One day."

  "Trader? Everywhere I went, his name'd come up. Last was he'd been wiped out in a standoff up on Lakota lands."

  "Ran into him not long ago. Not changed much. Him and Abe were riding together."

  "Abe!" She went into a coughing fit that ended only when Ryan gave her another sip of water. "Runt o' the litter. Tell you what, though. Little Abe was about the second best at lovin' I knew. Don't have to tell who was the best, Ryan. You always was and you always will be."

  "You taught me more than I'll ever forget about bedding, Jenny."

  "If I didn't pain so much, I'd ask you for a final ride, lad, for old times' sake. No need to look so horrified. I'm not up to it, and I doubt you would be. Christ!" Her hands went to her chest, gripping through the sheet. "Heart's goin' like a trip-hammer, lad. Could be."

  "Can I get someone? We have a real doctor with us. Mebbe she could."

  Though he knew that she couldn't.

  Her right hand stopped him, like the claws of a small bird. "Like I said, lad, no shit between us."

  "Do you want something to eat, Jenny? I could have them make some soup?"

  "Get real, Ryan." A spark of the old spirit flared up for a moment. "The last train's in the station, and I'll be pulling out on it in a short while. I wanted to see you. Part to see how life's treated you." A single bright tear eased from her left eye and trickled down the furrowed cheek. "There's something else, lad. Something else to warn you about."

  "What?"

  "Sit on the bed, close, Ryan, so I can see you. Light's failing. That's better. Heard from Clinkerscales about your rescue. Blood knee deep."

  Ryan didn't speak, watching as speech became a greater and greater effort for the dying woman.

  "Part of what I did for Trader was navigate. Get cross bearings. Find the two facts that met together so we'd know where the sweet Jesus we were."

  "You were terrific, Jenny. Got us out the three-day whiteout in the Darks."

  "Flattery gets you most places, like Trader used to say, lad. But here's two facts for you. One is that Baron Sharpe collects mutie animals. Folks around the Hole know it ain't just animals and birds. It's stickies and ghoulies and swampies and doomies and any poor son of a bitch that's not like norms."

  "I heard this," Ryan said quietly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone.

  "Cross bearing comes from the black-haired little woman you saved. Clinkerscales said she was the most frightening out-and-out, knock-'em-down doomie he ever saw. That true?"

  Ryan nodded. "Scary thing is that Emma can't understand it or control it."

  "Emma?" Jenny repeated mockingly, with a momentary glimpse of the sparky young woman that Ryan had known and loved. "Suppose you've been tucking 'Emma,' have you, lad?"

  "No."

  "Then you're getting old, Ryan. Remember that predark song that Ches used to sing? 'Hope I die before I get old'?" Ryan nodded. "Better believe that, Ryan."

  "You think that Sharpe'll try and keep Emma, if he gets to know her mutie skills?"

  "Sure as eggs is eggs. Never saw a truer cross bearing in my life, lad."

  "One of his sec men said as much. Only a matter of time before the baron finds out. I owe you some serious thanks for the warning, Jenny."

  Jenny nodded. "Another drop of. of water. Ryan. Can't you turn.up the light and turn up. the light?"

  He gave her another sip of water, but most of it dribbled from the corner of the woman's mouth, dripping into the sheet.

  "Thank. lad." Her breathing was faster and more shallow, and Ryan knew that the ending was very close. "Hold me and. and kiss. lad."

  He leaned forward and lifted her, taking the utmost care not to crush her fragile body against his. It was like holding a handful of dry, brittle bones.

  She turned her face up to him and he slowly lowered his mouth, trying to hold his breath against the enamel odor that swelled and filled the room.

  Jenny's lips touched his, and Ryan felt her trying to push
harder against him, the hot, dry tip of her tongue pressing between his teeth.

  He fought the temptation to pull away too quickly, finally easing himself back on the bed, gently laying her head onto the pillow.