"I'm sorry, my dear boy, but for a moment I felt as though I was standing outside of myself, outside of everything."
"You okay, Doc?"
"By the Three Kennedys, what a ridiculous question." Doc laughed bitterly. "You of all people should know that the last thing I really am is okay. But for a second, I was reminded of something that I seem to remember from what seems many years ago. I suppose it is many years," he added, surprise entering his tone, "but that is by the by. It is our host. There is something about the gentleman that haunts me. I feel he is a lost soul."
"I think it's me you've lost there, Doc," Ryan said softly. He felt Doc was trying to tell him something important, but he couldn't quite grasp it.
"He is driven by an inner demon that has taken over everything that he is or was. It is a demon that is part of him, and yet is apart. It has control of him to such an extent that it will care not for anyone or anything around. We should be wary of him, my dear Ryan, very wary. He means us no harm, I am sure, but we are the catalyst for him to put his own plans for vengeance into operation. And he will be merciless."
Ryan chewed his lip, trying to unravel Doc's language, the likes of which was no longer heard in the Deathlands. Finally, he nodded. "I understand. I figured along the same lines, I guess. But it's a matter of playing the odds, Doc, and I figure that we should go with it. If we pay heed, and keep our backs covered—"
"Then that is all we can do," Doc finished.
WITHIN A FEW HOURS, the companions, refreshed by their showers, were visited by Lonnie and Travis, who informed them that they would be eating shortly in the large room where the ovens were now installed. Travis also informed Mildred that Cy was sleeping, and that his condition was stable.
"But I'd be grateful if you could take a look at him later," he added.
Mildred agreed, and waited until Lonnie and Travis had left before murmuring, "Considering we injured him, they're being too damn nice about it."
J.B. shrugged. "That's life—and chilling—Millie. Most places they'd have chilled us straight away, but…"
"But we'll find out soon enough," Ryan finished.
The companions made their way to the eating room. The rest of the redoubt was empty except for one man, who sat alone in one of the living quarters. Doc looked in, and observed that it was a room that housed the monitors for all the sec cameras in the redoubt. To his surprise, none of the monitors were dark.
"Good heavens, that is most unusual!" he exclaimed.
The man on duty turned to him and shrugged. "Hell, if any of these go down, we probably couldn't fix 'em. Have to start posting guards. Still, our luck's holding so far. Guess Papa Joe's right—mebbe it is our fate to be here and get even."
Doc nodded and smiled. "Guess so, friend," he said cheerily before slipping out of the room, adding to himself, "Now, that really is interesting."
As they reached the eating room, they could see that the whole community was gathered together. There were about thirty in all, with only one-third of those being female. They were eating in relative silence, with only a very low hum of conversation taking place. Looking around, Dean could see that there were no children—no one, in fact, who seemed to be under the age of sixteen. The youngest looking man in the room was a whip thin boy who had the beginning of a beard, and was hunched over his food, as though wanting to appear invisible. Yet this had the opposite effect, as his intensity was such that he appeared to radiate a nervous energy that drew your eyes to him. Bizarrely, it was almost as though he could feel Dean looking at him. He turned to face the younger Cawdor, his eyes burning bright through his spectacles, a keen intelligence showing through. His eyes locked on Dean's, as though he were assessing him. Then he gave the faintest of grins, and the briefest of nods, before turning back to his food.
Unusual for a community setup, there seemed to be no table and privileges reserved for the baron—although it had been noticeable that Correll hadn't referred to himself as such—and the man who was leader was seated to one side of the room, with a group of people among whom were Travis and the Native American woman who had been in the defense party they had faced earlier. Correll stood when he noticed the companions enter, and beckoned them to him. They seated themselves at his table, some of the redoubt community moving to make room, and were served food by those who acted as cooks. Even these seemed to be on a par with everyone else, as there was no sign of a pecking order, and the cooks were as lean and fit as the people they had faced earlier.
In fact, this was one thing that all seemed to share. They seemed trained and fit, ready for combat at any time. This was a community that was carrying no passengers.
While they ate, they made small talk, and it wasn't until the meal was nearly over that Ryan judged it time to broach the subject that had, sooner or later, to be talked about.
The one-eyed man downed some of the brew that had been supplied with the meal, then took a breath. "I guess it's about time we all leveled. You know we came here using old tech. It was something we stumbled on, and we can't control it although we know how to trigger it. It's some kind of system for transporting people and objects across vast distances by breaking it all up into atoms and shooting it across from one comp to another."
Correll nodded slowly, sucking in his breath. "That'd be crazy talk if I hadn't known there was no other way to get into this place. So you can work it, but not control it?"
Ryan shook his head. "Guess it's like you in that sense. You know something about the old tech, enough to use some and keep some going, but not enough to really make it work for you."
Correll nodded. "That's what we can find out. It'll be sweet, and we can settle a few old scores. But to get at that knowledge, I need to know you'll join us in a firelight."
"Never shirked one yet," Ryan said levelly. "Just tell us what it's about."
Correll sat back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling. "We've been here for about ten years now, just getting ourselves ready for when fate decrees we can rise again. See, I used to be sec chief for Charity—" he spit the name of the ville with an undisguised venom"—which is just about the stupidest name you can think of for a ville run by such a coldheart son of a gaudy like Baron Al 'Red' Jourgensen. Got run out of town because I was heading sec on a convoy headed for a trade rendezvous. We got raided by a party from Summerfield—they're the ones who know something about the old ways, 'cause they had blasters and shit like you ain't seen before. We didn't stand a chance. All the things we were trading, all the jack we carried, it all went. Red wanted to chill me and the rest of the party who survived, so we had to run. Dammit, there was shit all we could do…
"Anyway, we found this place, and over the years there were others who Red was a shit to… See, we lost the trade and jack 'cause Red didn't let me take enough blasters or men. Always frightened he was gonna be overthrown if he let that happen. Stupe bastard deserves what he'll get. We all come from Charity, but we won't show none to old Red."
"So why is it right now?" Krysty asked.
Correll raised an eyebrow. "Fate works in strange ways. It's hard desert land out there, and that rad-blasting sun means jackshit grows that well. Summerfield may have old tech, but they ain't got shit to protect their water, and they lost a whole heap of women 'cause of rad sickness. While Red— Well, that stupe fucker has screwed up his whole farming scheme, and there ain't jackshit to eat. He needs jack for food and seed crop to start over."
J.B. nodded to himself. From the description of the land, and what he'd seen earlier on the outside, he was now sure that he had been correct in his guess that they had landed somewhere in New Mex. That knowledge may be useful.
Correll was in full flow. "So Charity and Summerfield have a little deal going down. Red is selling them some women for breeding stock, and in return he gets jack to buy food and seed crop to start over. Thing is, we know the route they gonna have to take, and we're gonna take them out. Get the jack and the women, then in the confusion when they think they'r
e double crossing each other, we take out Summerfield, get their secrets, then wipe that bastard Red off the face of the earth."
Correll's speech had been listened to by all in silence, the hush spreading as he talked longer. Now he was cheered by the assembled throng.
"We've trained hard, denied ourselves families, denied ourselves rest, and now fate has delivered vengeance to us," he yelled, to be greeted by whoops and hollers. "They call us the Hellbenders out there," one of the group screamed. "I know, I ain't been here long. But they're right—we're sure as hell bent on vengeance."
Ryan touched Correll on the arm, and the leader looked down at him, his eyes wild and gleaming, for a moment not seeing the one-eyed man.
"So when the hell does this begin?" Ryan queried.
"Seven days, friend, as long as it took to create this dust bowl before skydark. If that can happen, we can sure as hell get it together to whip some ass."
Chapter Five
"It is not very long," Doc mused. "Not very long at all." It was the morning after their first meal with the people they now knew were called the Hellbenders, and while Mildred went with Travis to check on Cy's condition, the rest of the companions were taking a few moments to assess, through headaches caused by the previous night's strong brew, what they had learned.
As the evening had worn on, and the redoubt dwellers had become intoxicated, so the rowdiness had increased. People were singing and shouting at one another, and Correll had tried to make himself heard to Ryan. But the volume from the assembled throng was too great, and the gaunt man's voice strained to be heard.
It was then that he gave a demonstration of his authority that made the one-eyed man assess the power that he held, and conclude that it was very great. Frustrated at not being able to make himself heard, a cloud of fury crossing his brow, Correll rose to his feet and then climbed onto the table. This movement immediately caught the eye of J.B., who rose an eyebrow at Ryan, receiving a similar gesture from his friend. This would be a telling moment.
Correll drew a long knife from a scabbard attached to his thigh. It was similar to Ryan's panga, but with a more curved blade that caught light from the candles that were augmenting the now dimmed fluorescent tubes, reflecting it in glittering patterns. Correll tossed the knife in the air so that it spun, and as it came back down he caught it by the point and, in one fluid motion, threw it so that it described a parabola around the circumference of the room. It skidded low across the tops of heads, its passing marked by a rush of air that breathed on the people, making them stop and turn. If someone had been standing higher than head height—on a chair, or on a table—then the knife would have sliced into them. As it was, Correll had judged the height to perfection, leaving nothing in the wake of the flight but a series of turned heads and a growing silence around the room.
The knife returned to him, its speed still strong. Correll leaned back without moving either of his feet and plucked the knife out of the air by its point as it passed him, killing the momentum dead with a downward flick of his wrist.
The room was now silent, all eyes on their leader.
"Good. I hate it when you all get too rowdy and I'm trying to talk. I was about to explain to our friends here that the mission on which they will join us is fast approaching. I have had intelligence reports that the trade-off is to be in seven days' time. So we go on triple red and train hard. The countdown begins here. Enjoy tonight, but wake up tomorrow to work hard. Vengeance will soon be ours."
With which he stood down from the table to a moment's silence before the assembled throng, having been given the countdown to that which they desired, erupted into cheering and whooping before resuming their festivities—this time with a renewed sense of purpose.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Krysty remembered the conversation with an appalling clarity, just as she remembered the expression on Correll's face as he spoke. His eyes glittered, his skin drew tight as the veins on his temples throbbed and the sinews stood out on his neck.
"It could never be too long, Doc," she said. "I don't think I could ever wait too long to go into a firefight with him."
"Fight whether want or not," Jak said with a shrug. "Fight him, fight Charity…fight someone."
"Jak's right," Ryan agreed. "We're caught between that rock and that hard place here. If we try to pull out on Correll, we'll buy the farm right now. But—"
"But seeing the way he is, what kind of suicidal strategies does he have planned?" J.B. finished. Like Ryan, the Armorer had an uneasy feeling that Correll would stop at nothing to achieve his aim, not caring for the lives of his people—or, for that matter, his own.
"Right now we've got to go with it," Ryan stated simply. "We've got no option here. But mebbe we can find a way to fill any holes in his plans and get nearer that old tech knowledge."
"It sure would help," Dean said, almost to himself. He had learned a few things at the Brody school, from the limited knowledge that was available. Like Mildred, he had an interest in the old comp tech that had led to them investigating the machines in redoubts whenever they had the chance, but those chances didn't come too often.
Doc eyed Krysty shrewdly. "I fear you are not happy with such a plan," he murmured to her. "In truth, neither am I. But Ryan is correct. In terms of options, we are severely limited."
"I know it, Doc," Krysty answered, "but it doesn't mean I have to like it."
Mildred returned with Travis and entered on these words, the redoubt dweller behind her. She took in the situation at a glance, and immediately launched into a detailed report on her patient's condition, along with praise for Travis's skills, in order to deflect her companion from asking questions about, or dwelling on, anything he may have overheard as they entered.
Travis was unassuming about the praise he received. "I was only doing what you said," he said to Mildred before, obviously uncomfortable at being lauded, changing the subject. "Look, we should be getting down to the meeting room. There's a briefing, and I can't believe Mr. C. doesn't want you there. Not after last night."
So saying, he led them from their room through the corridors to the room where they had eaten the previous evening.
"Nicely done, Millie," J.B. whispered as they went.
"No more than you should expect, John," she returned.
When they reached the meeting room, it was to find that the rest of the community was gathered, with Correll at the head, waiting for their arrival. After asking briefly how Cy was doing, Correll turned his attention to a crudely drawn map that was pinned to the wall.
"Now, most of the next six days we're going to spend shaping up, sharpening those reflexes. There'll be a training regime and combat tactics to learn. You're good and sharp, but I want you sharper still. Ryan," he said, turning to the one-eyed man, "I want you in on this with me. I figure an outside view from someone with your experience could be kinda interesting. And I want J.B. around, as well, 'cause we got to get that armory in the best shape it's ever been, and you're the man for that."
The Armorer nodded, not letting his feelings show. It was in the companions' best interests to have the armory in A1 condition, but it would also be good to know exactly what Correll had in his armory in case they had to stand against him.
Correll continued, pointing at the map. "I figure that the route will take both convoys around the really arid areas here—" he pointed at a spot toward the center of the distance between the two villes"—but they'll still want to meet as near to the center as possible. I know Jourgensen, and so does Hutter, the baron in Summerfield," he added for the benefit of the companions. "Any kind of advantage Jourgensen could get, he'd take with both greedy hands, so Hutter'll want to keep things as neutral as possible. And guess what, people? It just so happens that brings them nice and near to us.
"While most of us train, there's going to have to be volunteers for a recce party to scout Charity. I managed to get word from our spy in Charity about the meet, but Jourgensen has got the shape and size of the party well and
truly sewn up. We need to get someone close enough to the ville to see what's going on."
There was a moment's silence, then Lonnie rose to his feet. "I'll go," he said simply. The Native American woman rose to her feet, casting a hostile and suspicious look at the companions as she did.
"Count me in," she muttered.
Correll shook his head. "No way, Jenny. You've got to oversee the armory, and I'll need you to work with J.B."
"Shit, Joe, can't someone else do that? I don't want to work with them," she added, spitting out the last word as she glared at the companions.
Correll's face hardened—if that was possible in a visage that was so gaunt to begin with. "I know how you feel. Lance was a good man, and it was sad to see him pass. But that's fate. These people were defending themselves as we were. There was no malice, and we hold none against them."
Jenny turned and looked directly at Correll, her eyes meeting his with a blaze of defiance and anger. She matched him for a few moments, then looked down. "Okay," she mumbled, "if that's the way it's got to be."
"It is," Correll said softly. "Sit down and let's see someone else."
She reluctantly sat, and others rose to take her place. The recce party would consist of the lean, crop-haired Lonnie; Mik, a small, lean-faced man with several piercings and sardonic gaze; Tilly, a woman with large brown eyes and mouth set in determination, and the whip-thin boy in spectacles who had caught Dean's gaze the evening before. His name was Danny, and it seemed that he was the youngest member of the community.
"I think we shouldn't forget our friends," Correll said when he had approved the volunteers. "It would only be reasonable to send someone from your group on the recce," he added directly to Ryan.
Axler, James - Deathlands 65 - Hellbenders Page 6