by James Axler
“Theo?” a woman called out softly.
Going motionless, Doc felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. No. Impossible.
“Theo, my love?” the woman said again.
Slowly, ever so slowly, a terrified Doc turned to look over his shoulder. There she was, standing at the edge of the cliff, her clothing wet from the spray, her hands clenched tight as if in prayer. But there was no doubt about the identity of the woman. It was Emily Tanner, his wife.
“How…” Doc croaked, feeling his sanity reel. Tears flooded his eyes and his stomach hurt. For a split tick the old man thought he might be sick, but the queasy feeling passed. “Is…is that you, my dear sweet love?”
“Theo?” Emily asked in reply, taking a step forward, then hesitantly pulling it back. “Where are you, Theo?”
Awkwardly standing, Doc started toward the woman with a glad cry. But then she turned away and called out his name once more in another direction.
That made him stop. Couldn’t Emily see him? He was only fifty feet away! That was when Doc felt a rush of suspicion. Emily was doing the same things over and over again. Saying the exact same words, in the exact precise order. Then Doc inhaled sharply as he saw that the figure of Emily was not standing near the edge of the cliff, but past it, a good yard out in thin air.
“A hologram,” Doc growled, touching the blaster in his gunbelt. That wasn’t his wife, just some sort of three-dimensional recording of someone who looked like her. If he had rushed blindly into her arms, he would have gone over the cliff to his death.
With that thought, Doc turned to charge up the slope once more. By the Three Kennedys, she was a trap! How this was accomplished, he had no idea, but if time travel was involved, then he wanted no part of it. Fighting his way up the slope, Doc slipped and fell, only to throw himself forward again and keep going. To Hades with the war wag, he needed to get away from here as fast as possible. Perhaps he could buy a horse from the surviving Indians. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be forced to steal one. But either way, he was leaving New Mex, and right now!
As Doc scrambled to the top of the slope there was a motion in the air above, and a net dropped over him, the heavy weight driving him flat to the ground. Frantically, Doc fought against the entangling lengths, but the sticky strands seemed to tighten at every effort until the scholar was forced to lie still to keep breathing. Shaking with rage, Doc could do nothing as a dark shape rose from behind the crest and slowly walked closer, the combat boots crunching on the loose gravel.
“Welcome back, Tanner,” Edward Rogan said with a grin, swinging his leg forward.
The steel-toed combat boot slammed into his side, and Doc cried out as a rib broke. The thick nylon strands around him absorbed some of the impact, but a few more of those and the old man would buy the farm for sure.
Good. “H-he squealed, you know,” Doc gasped, talking through the pain.
Leaning in close, the scarred features of Edward came sharply into view. “What the fuck was that you said?” he demanded, spittle flying from his mouth.
Defiantly, Doc glared back. The net was blocking most of his view of the big man, but there now seemed to be two more shapes nearby. “I said, sir, that your yellow-belly brother wept like a little girl as I cut out his heart!” Doc braced himself for death. Long ago, he had made a vow that Coldfire would never capture him alive again. If this was the only way, so be it.
“Nobody talks to a Rogan that way!” Edward roared, pulling a huge blaster from his gunbelt. Kicking Doc over, the barrel-chested man shoved the cold barrel into Doc’s mouth. “You’re gonna pay for that…”
“Don’t touch the wrinklie,” John ordered brusquely, slapping the blaster aside. “Fuck with him and Delphi will skin us alive.”
“But he chilled Alan!” Edward yelled in unsuppressed fury, brandishing the blaster while his left hand reached for the bound scholar. To Doc, the hand looked large enough to crush his skull like an egg.
“And shot me, and jacked our bikes, and took Lily,” Robert answered in his twisted voice, massaging his bandaged arm. “I agree with what you’re saying, brother. But remember this.”
“Yeah?” Edward asked, still staring at Doc in open hatred.
“There’s not a fragging thing we can do to Tanner that will be half as bad as what Delphi has planned for him,” Robert snarled in sneering contempt.
Grinding his teeth, Edward merely breathed for a few minutes. “Yeah, that’s true.” The big man relented, holstering the blaster. “Tanner will get his soon enough.” Then he scowled. “Hey! Do ya think the wrinklie was trying to play us? Make us chill him so Delphi never has his fun?”
“Yeah, mebbe,” Robert muttered, rubbing the handkerchief tied around his neck. “It’s what I would have done, that’s for nuking sure.”
“Bastard is smart,” John said thoughtfully, walking around the helpless man. “You gotta give him that. Nobody ever got away from us before.” The elder Rogan could see the ebony stick and revolvers of the prisoner through the black netting. He seriously disliked leaving any captive armed, but it was safer to keep the net in place until Delphi took possession. Tanner had escaped once before. That wasn’t going to happen again.
Cracking his oversize knuckles, Edward gave a sound that might have been a laugh. “Any chance of Delphi letting us watch?”
“Who knows? Mebbe we can even help. Delphi doesn’t know everything.”
A lone eagle winged by the cliff, its cry echoing along the rocky expanse. In the talons of the bird was the limp corpse of a small songbird.
“That’s for damn sure,” Edward added so softly the words were nearly lost in the gentle breeze.
Even through his pain, Doc caught the comment and wondered exactly what it meant. These coldhearts worked for Delphi, but apparently not willingly? Interesting. If so, that might leave a little room for negotiations. Or even better, he might be able to make them turn against one another.
“Listen, I know—” That was as far as Doc got before John kicked him in the ribs again, the impact blossoming into white fire that stole the very breath from his lungs.
“Speak again, and we start cutting,” John stated. “Delphi wants you alive, but he didn’t say untouched. Get me?”
Doc weakly nodded, waiting for the pain to subside.
“Smart boy.” John chuckled, sliding the combo rapidfire off his shoulder. “Okay, you two, haul his ass away from the cliff. I’m not going to risk him rolling off the edge.”
Rough hands grabbed the old man and flipped him over. Staring upward, Doc could only see the outline of the coldhearts against the starry sky. Their faces were blank masks in the darkness.
Sliding on plastic gloves, two of the Rogans grabbed the sticky netting and roughly hauled Doc along the ground, over the crest and onto the hard-packed sand of the desert. Sand poured over his collar and down his shirt, but Doc said nothing, knowing that speech wasn’t an option right then. He was helpless, unable to reach any of his weapons.
Releasing the net, the Rogans dropped Doc onto the ground. He hit his head on a rock and everything went hazy for a while. When he could see again, Doc noted that the Rogans had a campfire going and were making coffee. The smell was a tantalizing agony. Behind them was a single black bike and a couple horses munching on feedbags tied around their necks. Doc blinked at the unexpected sight. How strange. The animals carried the brand of Two-Son ville. What did that mean? Had Baron O’Connor turned against the companions?
“So where is he?” Edward exhorted, brushing his ponytail off a shoulder. “The message on the radio said we were supposed to get here triple-fast. Been an hour already.”
The fact that an hour had passed while he was unconscious meant little to Doc compared to the casual comment that the Rogans had been contacted over a radio.
“We answer his call,” Robert muttered hatefully, taking a sip of hot coffee from a tin cup. “Not the other way around, bro.”
“Fragging bastard. I don’t like playing the
slut for any man.”
“He isn’t a man,” John said, holding a cup, letting the steam rise around his tight face. “He isn’t a mutie or a predark machine…nuking hell, I don’t know what the frag he is aside from dangerous.”
“Chilled,” Doc muttered, his lips in the dirt. “He’s chilled.”
“Did you just speak?” John demanded, lowering cup. The elder Rogan reached for the sheath on his belt and pulled out a handle without a knife attached. Then he pressed a button on the side and with a hard click, a steel blade snapped into sight.
A switchblade knife! Doc hadn’t seen one of those in years.
“Do him, bro,” Edward encouraged.
“I told you to stay quiet,” John said, standing slowly. “Now, you’re gonna pay.”
“Delphi is dead,” Doc said quickly, the words rushing out. His eyes searched the faces of the three brothers around the crackling flames. Their disbelief was obvious. “It is true. I chilled him this very night.”
Reaching for the bubbling iron pot, Edward poured himself more coffee. “Shut the fuck up,” he snorted.
Without speaking, John came closer.
“Your master is dead,” Doc said, fighting a ragged cough. His chest felt as if it were full of water, and every breath only made it worse. “I have accomplished what you could not.”
“That so?” Robert mocked, placing down his cup to wipe his mouth on a sleeve. “And how’d you do it?”
“We were in an underground stream. I used a gren,” Doc said honestly. “The roof collapsed, and he was buried under tons of rock.”
Less than a yard away, John paused to shift his grip on the predark switchblade. He had heard a lot of people beg for their lives over the years, making wild promises, telling crazy stories about redoubts and other mutie drek. Usually the coldheart could tell when somebody was shooting from the hip or throwing pure horseshit. It bothered the elder Rogan that the wrinklie thought he was speaking the truth. Was it possible? Could Delphi have been chilled?
Uneasily, the three brothers exchanged puzzled looks, then cast worried glances into the darkness outside the dancing nimbus of the campfire.
“What do you think?” Edward asked, worrying his scarred jaw.
Moving slowly, John folded the knife closed. “I think we should go see this stream,” he answered, tucking the knife into a pocket. “Robert, you stay here with the wrinklie.”
“What if he’s lying?” Robert demanded, picking up his rapidfire and opening the breech for the gren launcher. Taking a 40 mm shell from the bandolier across his chest, he slid the fat brass into the launcher and closed it with a satisfying click. “There might be a boobie waiting there.”
“Mebbe. But what if it’s true?” Edward countered, dropping the clip from his rapidfire to check the load. Slapping the clip back into the longblaster, he worked the bolt, chambering a round.
“It is true!” Doc said from the ground.
“Yeah, right,” John said in a measured tone of voice. “So where is this stream?”
“Just past the cliff, where you showed the hologram of Emily,” Doc said quickly. “How did you do that, anyway? Did Delphi give you that recording?” That had been preying on his mind ever since he’d seen the image. Was it a picture taken through time? Or did Chronos, or Coldfire, have his wife captive in one of their cursed labs? Oh dear God no, please, anything but that!
“What the frag are you yammering about, wrinklie?” John Rogan grabbed Doc by the silver hair and forcibly hauled his face upward. “What’s a hollow-grim, and who the fuck is Emily?”
They didn’t know. But then, who could have created the hologram? Delphi was chilled. Did that mean there were more agents of Coldfire in the area? Suddenly in a blind panic to escape, Doc tried to concoct a believable lie when Robert cried out and dropped his rapidfire.
Stumbling backward, the bald coldheart clutched his chest and collapsed just as the powerful report of a large-bore longblaster echoed across the rocky slope.
“Ambush!” John snarled, swinging up his rapidfire and sending a stuttering stream of lead into the chilly air.
Chapter Eighteen
Even as the M-16 rapidfires filled the night with hot lead, Edward kicked over the coffee pot to drown the campfire, and Robert crawled to his feet and grabbed a wep to join his brothers.
“Rogans!” John shouted as a battle cry, the muzzle-flash from his rapidfire strobing in the darkness.
From along a low ridge came a fusillade of return fire, the lead slapping into the sand throwing up tiny geysers, or humming past the three brothers.
Doc couldn’t believe that Robert was still alive, until he spotted the large rent in the bald coldheart’s vest exposing the angular body armor underneath. Payment in advance from Delphi, eh? Gathering air, Doc tried to shout a warning, but his cry was lost in the yammering fury of the assorted weaponry. The terrified horses whinnied loudly, ricochets zinged off stones in the ground. Brass and lead flew everywhere, the firefight sounding louder than skydark.
“Stupe bastards can’t hit drek.” Edward laughed, spraying the ridge. The hardball mil rounds smacked into the soft sandstone, chewing a line of chips and dust.
“You idiot, they’re trying not to hit the wrinklie!” Robert bellowed, inserting a fresh clip into his weapon. “Must be Ryan and his boys come for a rescue!”
“Good!” John snarled, backing away while still shooting.
Carefully keeping Doc between him and the ridge, the elder Rogan reached the frightened horses and kept firing while he fumbled in a saddlebag with one hand. Pulling a gren, he crouched to prime the canister and then threw it high.
The sleep gas gren was still airborne when J.B. popped up behind the sandstone ridge and triggered his scattergun. The canister exploded in midair, spreading a thick cloud high above the combatants, the desert breeze slowly pushing it toward the dead waterfall.
Then from among the companions firing along the ridge, a pretty face surrounded by wild ebony hair appeared, a slim hand triggering a huge handblaster.
“That was Lily!” Robert snarled, sounding shocked. “The fragging slut must have told them how to track us through the radios!”
“If she’s not with us, then she gets aced with them!” Edward yelled, pulling out a mil gren. But the barrel-chested coldheart jerked as he caught a flurry of rounds across the stomach. Grunting in pain, he staggered. The sphere dropped from his hand and rolled aimlessly along the sand.
As the gren stopped near Doc, he tried to kick the explos away, but his bound legs were unable to reach that far. Unable to do anything but watch, Doc suddenly burst into laughter when he saw that the pin and arming handle were still attached. Edward had never gotten a chance to arm the charge!
Exhaling in relief, Doc concentrated on trying to reach the butane lighter in his pocket. With luck, he might be able to burn through enough of the nylon strands to get one hand free, then toss the gren back to the Rogans to end this conflict in a single stroke.
Leveling his combo rapidfire, John worked the gren launcher and thumped a 40 mm shell at the ridge. A hellstorm of double-aught buckshot peppered the sandstone, and Mildred cried out to grab the side of her neck. Then Jak stroked his .357 Magnum Colt Python, and the booming handblaster slammed the elder Rogan off his feet, the M-16 rolling into the soggy ashes of the campfire.
Several pipe bombs went skyward from behind the ridge, the fuses sizzling and emitting bright sparks. Robert tried to shoot them out of the air but missed, and the pipes landed behind the Rogans. As the brothers dived for cover, the homie bombs detonated, blowing the horses into bloody gobbets. Caught by the shrapnel, the last bike erupted into an electrical blast that illuminated the entire landscape for one long searing heartbeat. It was a prolonged lightning strike that seared the sand into glass and sent off a reeking cloud of bitter ozone.
As the incandescent glare faded, Doc arched an eyebrow at the sliver of black metal quivering in the ground only a hair away from the gren. Muttering
a quick prayer to whoever was watching out for him, Doc continued playing the butane flame along the nylon strands, slowly melting his way through the stubborn netting. The fumes mixing with the ozone were making it difficult for him to breathe, but Doc doggedly continued, stealing tiny sips of air where he could.
Retreating behind the smoking corpses of the aced horses, the Rogan brothers tore open the tattered saddlebags to stuff their pockets with grens and every spare ammo clip still intact.
Another pipe bomb sailed high. Spinning, John shot it out of the air with his revolver. The resulting roar echoed across the landscape, the noise seeming to roll to the distant mountains. A few moments later, a soft hooting sound carried on the wind. The companions and the Rogans slowed their battle at the terrible noise, and then ceased firing at one another as more hoots came, louder and closer.
Fumbling with his rapidfire, Robert loaded an illuminating shell into the gren launcher and pumped the brass into the sky. The 40 mm Star Shell detonated high and drifted slowly downward, the shiny parachute reflecting the brilliant light of the magnesium charge to spread out a cone of illumination.
Moving like ghosts in a dream, tiny humanoid figures were loping across the flatlands, lumpy misshapen things that only vaguely resembled norms with their tattered clothing.
“Stickies!” Krysty cried, dumping the spent brass from her revolver and frantically thumbing in fresh rounds. “Dozens of them!”
“There’s a lot more than that,” Ryan reported, inserting a fresh clip into the SIG-Sauer’s grip.
Quickly, the Deathlands warrior glanced around and weighed the options. This was a bastard poor location for a stand-up fight with stickies. There was only flat ground ahead of the companions, and behind was the cliff with a drop that ended far out of sight. The companions still had their horses, but that would mean leaving Doc behind. It would be kinder to put lead in the old man than abandon him to the muties and the Rogans.