by James Axler
A dozen of them jerked at the impact of the 5.56 mm hardball ammunition. Chunks of their heads were ripped away to reveal the soft pink brains inside, the folds alive with crawling green vines. Then the vines withdrew and wiggled away like an escaping snake.
“...thank...you...” a woman hoarsely whispered, slumping into death.
Doc triggered the miniature shotgun on his LeMat. The thundering discharge of the 8-gauge cartridge chewing up the naked feet of the slaves and cutting several lengths of escaping vines.
As the damaged vines withdrew even faster, the freed people dropped, and there came a high-pitched keen of pain from deep inside the missile base.
“Ace the vines!” Mildred snarled, the ZKR firing steadily.
Reloading as they retreated, the companions cut loose at anything moving on the floor. As a length of vine was severed, the unharmed section would quickly withdraw and the formerly attached meat puppet would limply fall, some, if able, mouthing words of gratitude while convulsing into sweet oblivion.
When there were no more vines or slaves in the tunnel, the companions paused to catch their breaths, warily watching the floor, walls and ceiling, for any sneak attacks.
“Everybody okay?” Jak muttered, shoving a magazine into his longblaster.
“Still here!” J.B. replied, thumbing fresh cartridges into his shotgun. “But I...” He stopped talking to oddly giggle, then reached out to stroke a hand across the rear of Mildred’s pants.
“John Barrymore!” Doc gasped in shock.
Annoyed, Mildred slapped his hand away, then paused, reeling slightly as she began to breathe deeply.
“Millie...” J.B. mumbled, casting away the shotgun.
“Oh...John,” she replied, dropping her medical kit.
As they passionately embraced, Ryan instantly recognized the signs from when he’d battled a vine master many years ago.
“Masks!” he bellowed, firing the Steyr dangerously close between the two people. The stinging muzzle flash made the man and woman jerk backward, and the wild frenzy left their faces as the pain overwhelmed the hypnotic perfume.
“Stinking mutie weed,” Jak snarled hatefully, pouring some raw shine onto a handkerchief and holding it to his face.
Tossing the bottle to Doc, he yanked out a gren, clumsily pulled the pin with one hand, released the arming lever and whipped the bomb through the open doorway.
A few seconds later Doc did the same thing, closely followed by Ryan, Krysty, and then all of the companions.
At the first explosion, the unseen vine master bellowed again, then its cries were drowned out by the rapid detonations of the other grenades.
“A-aced?” J.B. panted, his sweaty face still deeply flushed.
Mildred wildly shook her head, her beaded plaits flailing. “Can’t r-risk it,” she croaked weakly. “B-best run...while w-we can...”
The other companions needed no further prompting. Stumbling more than walking, they retreated to the frightened horses and clambered into their saddles.
Kicking the animals into a fast walk, the companions were nearly at the mouth of the tunnel when a fresh wave of meat puppets appeared out of the darkness.
Wordlessly crooning a soft melody, this time however, there were only women. Stark naked, they made kissing faces and began to beckon the companions.
With the cold morning wind blowing in fresh air, the grim companions took out their weapons, and mercifully cut down the women with carefully placed head shots, forever freeing them from the odious control of the demonic mutant. Then kicking their horses into a gallop, the companions headed away from the tunnel and across the snow as fast as possible.
“Cold air never tasted so bastard good,” J.B. said, breathing deeply.
“Wretched abomination,” Doc muttered, resting the M-16 across his lap. “Our morning ablutions must have accidentally awakened the foul colossus in its stygian lair.”
“M-more likely it was the dawn,” Mildred wheezed, reaching into her shirt to stuff a breast back into her sports bra. “The d-damn thing is just a plant. Needs sunlight...as well as meat.”
“Meat?” Ricky asked in horrid fascination.
“It doesn’t actually eat people,” Krysty explained, her fiery hair fanning out in the cold wind. “The perfume stuff merely makes...” She paused, uncertain, then continued. “It makes you have controllable sex until you die from starvation, then it feeds off the decomposing corpses.”
“Whew! Slaves or food,” Jak muttered. He made a face as if biting into an apple and discovering half a worm.
“Indeed, it is a most dastardly duality of damnation,” Doc said.
“Did anybody notice the uniforms on the slaves?” Krysty asked.
Keeping both hands on the reins, Ryan cast a backward glance. “Uniforms?”
“In that first wave. There were only two,” she replied. “I mean, two types of uniforms. The tan buckskin of the Granite Empire sec men, and another uniform, some sort of twilled cloth that was dark green.”
“Nothing else?” Ryan quizzed.
“Just those.”
“Only two uniforms seems to imply that the second group is either good friends with Angstrom’s widow, or her enemy.”
“Hopefully the latter,” Mildred said, shifting position in the saddle. “Green, you said?”
“Dark green,” Krysty replied. “If we find folks wearing that color, we might be able to cut a deal.” She smiled. “The enemy of my enemy, and all that.”
“Quite true, dear lady!” Doc retorted in reply. “Although, occasionally, the enemy of my enemy is still just another damn enemy.”
Having no reply to that, Ryan made sure a grenade was comfortably tucked into a pocket before settling into the rocking motion of a long horse ride.
Slowly, the sun warmed the air, removing the evening chill. Loose snow swirled around on the breeze, but the sky was clear, and Ryan allowed himself to relax. There was still quite a distance to go until the redoubt, and they had an army on their trail. But potential allies had entered the mixture, and the companions were fully armed once more. Both of which were good things. If life had taught Ryan anything, it was to enjoy the little things while he could, because all to soon—
With a grunt, Ricky took the DeLisle from his gunboot and fired a single round into the trees. On the other side of the snowy field, a fat opossum sitting in a redwood cried out and fell limply to the snow with a heavy thump.
“Breakfast!” the youth announced proudly, holstering the carbine.
Chapter Nine
The morning sun was still low in the sky, the bright rays just peeking over the eastern wall of Concord ville. The cold air was rich with the aroma of pine from the surrounding forest, mixed with the homey aroma of wood smoke.
Yawning and stretching, the inhabitants were starting to rouse for the day, most of the men hauling bundles of fishing nets down to the stone docks of Bluewater Lake.
Alongside the flat roof of a predark hair salon, a tall man wearing dark green clothing rose into view on a worn bamboo ladder mostly held together with twine, duct tape and a large dose of optimism.
“Good morning, Kevin,” Baron David Linderholm said, stepping off the rickety ladder.
Standing near a large open-faced coop in the middle of the roof, Sky Master Kevin Owens turned around, a hooded falcon sitting on his padded forearm. The man was also dressed in the dark green uniform of Concord ville, a holstered blaster at his side and the handle of a knife jutting from a fishskin boot.
“Morning, Baron!” Kevin said with a lopsided grin, gently stroking the neck of the bird. “Are you here for the daily tally?”
“Of course,” Linderholm said, twisting and turning to straighten his back from the arduous climb. “Dark night, I know your birds need privacy to sleep and
mate, but this rooftop coop is getting harder for me to reach every year.”
“But it’s perfect for them!” Kevin beamed, opening the wire door to the coop and putting the falcon on a wooden perch. “Just perfect! Exactly the correct amount of sunshine, rain and wide-open spaces.”
“They fly, so why would they want...” Linderholm paused. “Never mind, Sky Master, whatever you need will be provided.”
“How about an evening with Cordelia at the Watering Hole?” Kevin chuckled, removing the leather hood from the bird. It blinked at the sunlight, then spread both wings wide and loudly announced its domination over the entire world.
“Would if I could, old friend.” Linderholm laughed, slapping the smaller man on the back. “But we’re the wrong caliber for her blaster...if you get my meaning.”
“Yes, so I have heard. What a waste.”
“If the tales are true, Cordelia does anything but waste it.” Linderholm turned to watch the flock of falcons in the huge coop strut around, flapping their wings.
A large male with a white collar turned to looked directly at the baron, its black eyes narrowing in an eerily human expression of hatred. It was an unnerving sight, but Linderholm knew that the deadly falcons were as harmless as newborns in the presence of their beloved master. But one word from Kevin and they would attack an enemy with incredible savagery. Many coldhearts who attacked the ville barely escaped alive, their faces in bloody tatters. The Falcons of Concord were nearly as famous, and as feared, as the village’s deadly cannons.
In a surge of pride, Baron Linderholm glanced along the walls at the double row of shiny brass cannons set into the limestone blocks. The first cannon had been rescued from something called a museum, a bizarre sort of storage facility for weapons in very bad condition.
Had the cannons been put there for repair? He had no idea. But by the dint of trial and error, the village blacksmiths had eventually learned how to duplicate, and then improve, the predark relic. Now their range, power and accuracy were legendary. Not even howlers dared to approach the village! Although privately, the baron admitted to himself that might merely be a coincidence. Nobody in the ville knew anything about howlers.
“How many carrier pigeons have your winged mercies aced today?” Linderholm asked, putting his back to the cage full of fluttering assassins.
“Three...so far,” Kevin said, removing the padded sleeve from his arm. “But the day is still young, Baron.”
“Only three?” Arching an eyebrow, Linderholm looked around the rooftop, which was littered with dozens of bloody pigeon corpses. The piles of loose feathers were blowing around like autumn leaves.
“Three that carried messages,” Kevin corrected, pulling a wad of folded papers from a pouch on his gunbelt. “The rest carried nothing but lice.”
He smiled at the small joke.
“But what about the code?” Linderholm said with a tolerant expression. “Have you have any luck breaking it yet?”
“No, Baron, I have not,” Kevin muttered, crushing the neatly folded papers into a crumpled wad. “Whatever secret tongue King Angstrom uses is quite beyond my knowledge. It might as well be gibberish!”
“Could it be?”
“Lord?”
“It is gibberish? Maybe the writing means nothing, and it is the type of pigeon that is the actual message. A female for attack, a male for retreat, brown for this, gray for that, and so such.”
“God’s balls, I’ll have to check my records for such details,” Kevin said eagerly, his eyes darting back and forth. As if sensing his excitement, the falcons started flapping their wings and loudly screamed their hunting cry.
“Well, let me know the results, and keep chilling those flying rats,” Linderholm said, turning to start picking his way across the collection of dead birds. “Someday we’ll find out what he’s talking about, and then we can bring the battle to him.”
“And what a great day that will be, Baron!” Kevin shouted. “A victory for the ages!”
Saying nothing in return, Linderholm started down the ladder. He always tried to keep a brave face to bolster morale. Sec men, bakers, fishers, blacksmiths, gaudy sluts, potters, healers, wrinklies and the children, they all depended upon him to keep the King of the Granite Empire far away.
To date, he had been successful. But every year, Angstrom made more conquests, controlled more villages, his army constantly swelling in size, and the rumors of a new armored war wag called Fire Hammer were extremely disturbing. Concord had cannons, the best in the Hamps, and a secret supply of powder that was the lifeblood of his defenses. But a pitched battle between a predark war wag and his cannons would only pack the last train west with mutilated bodies from both sides.
However, there was no denying that it would be an amazing fight to see...just from a very great distance away.
* * ** * *
SEVERAL DAYS LATER the companions were still riding higher into the rumbling mountains. Every path they took ended in impossible cliffs, a dead end, or went upward.
“Soon we crest top, then downhill easy,” Jak said, tightening a new wolfskin cloak around his shoulders.
“Well, going back the way we came isn’t an option,” Ryan muttered, barely visible inside the shaggy skin of a giant sheep. “So up we go.”
Everybody was wrapped in some sort of animal skin as much needed protection from the bitter cold. Most of the hides came from wolves and bears, both of whom acted as if they had never seen a normal human before. That made shooting them ridiculously easy. Then at night the companions would scrape the skin clean and rub in the brains of the beast. The natural chemicals in the brains greatly assisted the curing process, and the skins were holding up well so far.
Mildred and Doc both found it amusing that every animal seemed to have just enough brains to cure its own hide. Doc claimed it was proof of a loving god, Mildred said it was just functional evolution, and their heated arguments raged over the hills, dells, escarpments and arroyos of the wintry New Hampshire mountains.
Meandering their way through a dense forest, the companions were startled when the air became noticeably warmer. Soon, the deep banks of snow disappeared, then thin patches of plant life returned. By noon the next day, the landscape was thick with green grass and flowering bushes of every description.
“Are we near a rad pit?” Ricky asked nervously, his horse stepping over a small babbling creek.
“Not that I can tell,” Ryan said, checking the rad counter clipped to the collar of his shirt inside his new coat. “This must be a natural phenomenon. Underground hot springs, or something.”
“Please, don’t even mention the possibility of a warm hot bath.” Krysty sighed, scratching under her collar.
Starting across a wide meadow of wildflowers, the horses eagerly started consuming everything in sight. Since the animals had been on short rations for more than a week, the companions tolerantly let the horses graze freely for a while before forcing them onward. Although beautiful, strong and loyal, most horses weren’t overly intelligent, and if left on their own accord, hungry horses would often stuff themselves with food until becoming sick.
“In a way, they’re rather like frat boys,” Mildred said to herself.
“Who are what, Millie?” J.B. asked curiously.
She started to speak, then waved the complex explanation. “Nothing, John, never mind. Private joke.”
Understanding that she often made references to a world that no longer existed, J.B. nodded in acceptance.
Leaving the meadow, the companions felt the heat increase again. Riding around an outcropping, the companions paused at the unexpected sight of a river of blazing hot lava pouring from the side of a cliff. Thick and sluggish, the lumpy molten rock flowed thickly down the mountain, branching out into two wide rivers that disappeared over a wide cliff made of shiny basalt.
“Damn,” Jak drawled in amazement.
Situated between the two glowing rivers was a wide delta covered with fields of corn and rows of trees heavily laden with apples, pears and what almost appeared to be eggplants. In the center of the delta was a small walled ville. Armed sec men wearing bright orange hunting vests walked the wall, there was smoke rising from several brick chimneys, and a tattered American flag fluttered from a tall wooden pole.
“Behold, Lava ville!” Mildred cried, throwing back her wolfskin hood to bask in the waves of warmth.
“No, indeed, madam,” Doc said softly. “It is the mighty Xanadu...where Kubla Khan did a stately pleasure dome degree!”
She flipped a hand back and forth. “Bananas, tomatoes.”
“Isn’t that Xanadu poem about an ice palace?” Ryan asked, pulling the Steyr from the gunboot.
“Quite right!” Doc beamed in delight. “However did you know?”
“You recite it often enough,” Krysty snorted, her hair fanning out to play in the warm breeze.
“Think those vests are the badge of a sec man?” Ryan asked, swinging up the longblaster and looking through the telescopic sight. “The ville could have been founded by a group of hunters who survived skydark. Now the vest is a mark of authority.”
“Makes sense,” J.B. said, extending the Navy telescope to its full length. “I can see into the ville from here, and there’s no sign of any slave pits or whipping posts.”
“Doesn’t mean they don’t have them,” Ryan said, lowering the longblaster. “But good enough for a recce.”
“If the baron knows anything about thermodynamics, it would be easy to build an electric generator that ran on steam from the lava,” Mildred said eagerly. “That would give them lights, refrigeration, radios, an electric fence to hold back the muties....”
“They’re just likely to have a dung-eating contest,” Krysty replied dourly. “Sometimes, the nicer the ville, the more backward the people.”