Moon Fate

by James Axler

  But they didn't disturb Abe.

  Ryan had put his old friend into a deeper level of unconsciousness than before by the simple expedient of rapping the butt of the blaster hard against his head, just behind the left ear.

  The trickle of moans that threatened both of their lives stopped abruptly.

  The stickie appeared like a night wraith, the suckered fingers making faint kissing sounds as he re­leased the armaglass.

  He was carrying an M-16 that Ryan guessed had been liberated from one of the dead lepers. The sheet of moonlight was further blocked when a second fig­ure appeared in the doorway.

  "Anything?"

  "Too black."

  Charlie's voice was thin and piercing from the street outside. "Anything?"

  "Too dark. We got no lights fucking to see? Not no lights for fucking seeing?"

  Charlie spoke again, unable to conceal his irrita­tion. "No, we don't have any torches."

  "Why?"

  "Because I fucking well forgot to— It doesn't mat­ter, Tony."

  "Too dark," repeated the stickie who had his head and shoulders inside the lobby of the Beacon Multi­plex Cinema. Ryan had a perfect bead at less than twenty feet range and was ready to blow the mutie's skull apart like a watermelon rolled under a speeding semi.

  The indecision in Charlie's voice was loud and un­mistakable. Without lights it was madness for him to risk sending any of his party into the derelict build­ing.

  But if he hung around and waited until dawn, then Ryan and the others could be long gone, way out of his reach.

  "What we doin', Charlie?"

  "You can't see anything in there?"

  "Darker'n the back end of Marcie's—"

  "Yeah, yeah," his leader interrupted.

  Ryan suddenly felt that wonderful sensation when you know you've got it right.

  Life-and-death combat situations were, as the Trader often remarked, just like playing a good game of poker. Sometimes you had to bluff on an eight-high hand, but mostly it was knowing odds, drawing to an inside straight or filling a flush.

  Or tricking a gang of stickies into thinking you'd all gone down the side of a mountain.

  "Come on out," Charlie shouted.

  "You mean us?"

  "He mean us?"

  "Just get the fuck out here. Likely they kept mov­ing. We'll follow on and pick up the trail at first light." His voice was fading as the door swung slowly shut. "Then we'll…"

  And that was all that Ryan heard.

  He waited until the tiny digital numbers on his wrist chron clicked around, showing double-two, double-zero.

  At his side, Abe's breathing was slow and steady, with a regular catch to it, as though he were dozing and was just going to jerk awake and ask for break­fast.

  Ryan checked on his pulse, which was slow and strong, also feeling the lump on the head. A little thread of drying blood had matted the hair and con­gealed on the floor.

  "Sorry about that, buddy," he whispered, sliding silently out from under his precarious barricade. He stood and stretched, making sure his muscles hadn't tightened too much.

  There was a little more moonlight filtering in, mak­ing the lobby seem like some vast, sinister undersea cavern.

  He catfooted across to the hidden door and opened it an inch, putting his lips to the crack. "It's Ryan, Jak."

  "They gone?"

  "Think so. Wouldn't take chances though. Not with a stickie like Charlie."

  "Coming up or me down?"

  "I'd like a look up on the roof. You come down and watch over Abe."

  "Sure."

  Ryan was right by the stairs, ears honed for any sound. But Jak still made him jump, materializing out of the Stygian darkness.

  "Fireblast!"

  A quiet chuckle. "Christina says I move real silent for skinny kid."

  "She call you that?"

  "Kid? Sure." Again that quiet, contented chuckle. "Not same from her, Ryan."

  "Guess not."

  "How's Abe?"

  "Had to coldcock him with the blaster. Started to make some noise just when one of the stickies was nosing in."

  "But is…"

  "Good, as far as I can tell. Go keep an eye on him, Jak. Don't stick your head out the doors until I come backdown."

  "Okay."

  On the stairwell the light had almost totally van­ished. Ryan was conscious only of the dimmest glow, which he assumed was coming from the open trap onto the flat roof.

  He felt his way along, his fingers encountering something small and slippery that writhed away from his fingers. It fell from the wall with a faintly disgust­ing plopping sound.

  Halfway up there was a landing with a door that was either locked or jammed, then another flight of steps, this time of echoing iron.

  The projection control suite was right at the top, with its door missing. The room was about twenty feet square with wrecked equipment scattered every­where. Now the light was better, and Ryan's eye had adjusted to it, seeing to pick his way across to the rec­tangular window of thick glass that looked down over the main auditorium.

  There was a folding steel ladder against the wall, which was hooked on to the bottom of the trapdoor. Before climbing it, Ryan moved over to the projec­tionist's window and peered through, trying to imag­ine what it had been like when the ragged seats below were filled with laughing, excited people.

  From what he knew, Ryan guessed that something like ninety-five percent of that last-ever crowd in the

  Beacon would have been chilled within less than six months.

  The breath of sound from behind and above him warned Ryan what was happening.

  And he started to spin around, lifting the SIG-Sauer, knowing he was way too late.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  KRYSTY STOPPED DEAD, her hand going to her mouth. She half turned on the trail, nearly stumbling, and swallowed hard. Looking back again, her eyes locked on to Christina's face.

  Both women had gone corpse white.

  "You felt it?" Christina breathed accusingly. "Didn't you?"

  "Yes. Oh, Gaia help me! Yes, I did."

  A FLAILING NAKED FOOT kicked the blaster out of Ryan's hand, jarring his wrist. He tried to push the stickie away from him, but the creature was on top of him, its falling weight knocking him helplessly to the floor.

  There wasn't time to call out to Jak.

  Not even time to draw a breath.

  Charlie had obviously been sharper than Ryan or Jak had suspected, leaving a man behind to watch the buildings and to creepy-crawl around in the dark to see what he could find out.

  The mutie must have spotted the open trap in the roof and climbed up, seen Ryan in the darkness and simply dropped in on him.

  Now it was a desperate battle, with the stickie hav­ing the initial advantage. His suckered hands were groping for Ryan's face, ripping at his coat.

  After the first heart-stopping shock, Ryan's first realization was that his attacker wasn't carrying any sort of weapon. No blaster threatened him, not even a knife.

  But there were sharp teeth scratching the skin on his throat, jaws snapping in his face, the rank stench of rotting fish flooding his nostrils, a bony knee jabbing between his thighs and trying to crush his genitals.

  And a slobbering moan of bitter hatred filling his ears.

  Ryan was used to direct physical confrontation, able to make a fast decision on what kind of person was fighting him.

  The stickie was close to six feet, but much skinnier than he was. And from hanging on to his assailant's wrists to try to control him, Ryan was very aware of the brutish strength that resisted him.

  One hand brushed against the side of his head and jerked out a clump of hair, bringing a section of bloodied scalp with it.

  "Bastard!" Ryan hissed, digging his fingers into the stickie's upper arm, exerting all of his own power to try to separate the muscle from the bone.

  There was a strangled scream from the mutie, who tried to roll and kick himself
away from the agonizing pain.

  The moon veiled herself behind some tatters of high cloud, throwing the projection room into total black­ness. Ryan let go of the stickie, crawling toward the observation window at the front, cursing as he felt and heard tiny splinters of glass crackling under his knees.

  "Charlie was right. Said you might stayed. Told us to look an' hide."

  Even in the heightened tension of a battle for his life, Ryan was able to notice the significant use of the word "us."

  There were others around Bear Claw Ridge.

  He had to warn Jak as quickly as possible.

  "You hurt my arm, norm. Real bad."

  The voice was like Harold's had been, a nagging, whining sound that seemed to grate at the inside of Ryan's skull.

  He crouched and waited. On the off chance, he brushed cautiously with his fingers in a sweeping cir­cle, in case the blaster had dropped within reach. But there was nothing except dirt, glass and broken pieces of the old projection machinery.

  "Where are you, norm? Frightening of chilled?"

  Ryan's hand crept to the hilt of the eighteen-inch panga, tightened and drew it from the soft leather sheath.

  The voice moved, closer to the stairs from the lobby of the multiplex.

  "Go see how many norms lived in these place. Charlie thinking some lot."

  To try to use the panga totally blind was to court disaster. It might crack against the wall or just strike the stickle a glancing, wounding blow. Either way there was a real risk that Ryan would lose his hold on it.

  He had to get close enough to be sure of a firm blow against the enemy.

  "Stay there, norm, when going to see what's down here."

  Ryan tried to shuffle after the mutie, but he was noisier in the heavy boots. Aware of this, he stopped and remained perfectly still.

  Above him there was a very faint increase in the light as the moon began to shrug off the insistent clouds.

  It was enough for him to make out the wispy hair of the stickie, disappearing out of view, down the nar­row stairs.

  Ryan considered throwing the panga, but it was a clumsy weapon and the odds favored a miss. Better to stalk after the man and hope to trap him between himself and the teenager.

  "Down and down I going and arounds, arounds. Maked my head to be spinning, norm."

  The voice was becoming hollow, with an echo. Ryan finally moved across the room, glancing up at the open trapdoor in case there were any more stickies waiting to jump him. But the rectangle of silver light was un­broken.

  The mutie was out of sight, but Ryan could hear its sliding, insistent voice, babbling away to itself as it drew nearer the bottom.

  "Door closed, closed and shut as well it is." A rattle as the stickie grabbed the handle and tried to force it open. Ryan heard the squealing of hinges, but the door held. "Seen another down here. Try that one too."

  Now there was enough light coming into the cramped little room to enable Ryan to make out where the SIG-Sauer had landed. He stooped and picked it up, holding it in his left hand, keeping, the panga in his right. If, as now seemed likely, there were other stickies prowling the night, it was as well to be triple ready.

  Ryan paused at the top of the dark stairwell, un­able to see anything. He concentrated his hearing, catching the tiny click of the latch opening.

  Below him, moments later, there was the whisper of a door being closed.

  The stickie might be waiting for him in the mid­night velvet stillness.

  If it had been Charlie himself down there, Ryan would have hesitated for a long time before risking the descent.

  But this was an ordinary stickie with the usual in­telligence level of a broken fence post.

  Ryan went down after him, feeling carefully for the rail.

  The access to the lobby was closed.

  Here the light was almost gone. Ryan reached out with the hand holding the pistol and pushed very gen­tly at the door. It moved an inch or so then stopped, as if someone were standing with their foot jammed against it.

  Ryan let his breath slowly out and counted off sixty seconds, pushing the door again. This time he felt the same resistance and heard the smallest scuffling sound, as though a baby rat was caught inside a large bureau.

  There was a ghostly light in the lobby that showed along the crack every time Ryan pushed at the door. It would mean that he would be completely exposed to anyone who might be waiting there.

  The other option was to go back into the projec­tion box and climb out through the trap, over the roof and down into the street at the side of the SkyHi Mall. Then come all the way around and approach the Bea­con Cinema from the front.

  Which didn't seem a great idea, either.

  He set his shoulder against the door and gave it a great heave, powering himself through the gap, roll­ing over onto one shoulder and coming up with the SIG-Sauer raking the gloom around him.

  "Bang, you dead!" said a quiet voice, coming from the shadows where Abe was hidden.

  "Thanks, Jak."

  "Welcome, Ryan."

  "Nearly crapped my pants."

  A soft laugh. Now Ryan could see the white smudge of the teenager's hair, low down. Behind him, by the closed door, there was another pale blur, lying stretched on the floor—the body that had been blocking the exit from the stairs.

  "Took the stickie," Jak said.

  "Didn't hear the…" Ryan began, shaking his head at his own foolishness. "Course. Not the blaster. Throwing knives."

  "Yeah. Just one. Wasn't sure how things might be with you. Figured I'd wait."

  "Think there's more stickies around. He slipped by me in the dark. But he talked of 'us' being left by Charlie."

  Jak was standing, coming toward him like a Hal­loween wraith.

  "Better go look for them?"

  "Leave Abe on his own?"

  "They come find us he could die anyways, Ryan."

  "True."

  He thought about their options. The idea of hiding was now undermined. Having killed one of the stick­ies, it would bring any others searching around. Chill them and Charlie might come back in the dawning to see what was happening to his missing patrol. Either way, it was going to mean taking a serious risk.

  "How is Abe?"

  "No change."

  "Then we'll go do some hunting."

  THERE WERE TWO MORE of the murderous muties loose around Bear Claw Ridge. Ryan and Jak sepa­rated outside the movie house.

  One of them trailed and chilled his prey success­fully.

  One of them didn't.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  J.B. STOPPED AND beckoned Krysty to his side.

  "See the terrain here?"

  "Yeah."

  "What do you think?"

  "What for? Oh, I see. Could be."

  "Put the guns on both sides, but the rising slope means there's no risk of pouring lead into one an­other. Be firing downhill a little, which isn't so good for accuracy. Still…"

  The Armorer's glasses glinted silver in the moon­light. He licked his lips in the eager anticipation of a good ambush.

  The others joined them, quickly understanding what he planned.

  Dorina punched one hand into the other. "Give 'em some shit," she hissed.

  Harold nodded reluctantly. "Could be a good place to catch them, 'specially if they're moving fast and careless."

  "Never heard of a stickie that wasn't always care­less," Christina said. "Excepting for that Charlie, of course."

  "Mebbe I could sort of lure them," Dean offered, "pretend I got a bad ankle or something. Limp back there so they see me. Then they'll be thinking about me and start chasing me, and you can easy take them."

  "No," J.B. replied flatly.

  "It'd work."

  "And then I get to tell your father that some stickie got a lucky shot and blew half your head away? Dark night!"

  Doc cleared his throat. "Forgive my interruption, John Barrymore."

  "What?"

  "I am a
famous dullard when it comes to subtle variations in the fine art of warfare. But it does seem to me that the little rascal has come up with a poten­tially game-winning suggestion."

  The forest closed around them. The trail ran straight for about one hundred and fifty paces. On each side the hills rose away, with excellent cover for hidden shootists.

  J.B. sighed, looking at the others. "I'm the one in charge. I don't like the risk."

  Doc pressed him. "A perfect ambuscade. We can annihilate the enemy, then return safely to liberate Bear Claw Ridge and all who sail in it." He coughed again. "And do business in great waters, for they— I'm sorry, I appear to have momentarily lost the thread of my discourse."

  Mildred broke the silence. "I say let him do it. It's a real good plan."

  "Dad would let me if he was here."

  J.B. wasn't the sort of man to waste time once he'd finally made up his mind.

  "Let's do it," he said. "Then go make sure every­one's safe up the hill."

  STORAGE UNITS had been ripped off one of the walls of the mall, leaving brackets scattered all over the floor. Trying to move quietly through the concrete maze of small units and gaping doorways, Ryan slipped and turned his ankle, falling heavily.

  Fortunately if there were any stickies nearby, none of them seemed to have been attracted by the clatter.

  All around him, the retail catacomb was still and silent.

  He lay there for a moment, cursing beneath his breath, then pulled himself up, gingerly testing the in­jury. He put his weight on it and winced at a feeling like a white-hot needle lancing through the bone. Ryan had broken his ankle about ten years earlier and could still remember the extraordinary pain that had seeped in after about fifteen minutes. This time it had hurt immediately, which gave him some hope that it might only be a bad sprain.

  He rolled his ankle, gritting his teeth, trying again to stand on it. This time it was markedly easier and he limped up and down a few times, eye scanning the main part of the mall for any sign of movement. But it was still deserted.

  JAK TURNED A BLIND CORNER to find his target—an unusually stout stickie—leaning casually against a tumbled wall, head back, taking a great gulp from his flask.