Deathlands 47 Gaia's Demise

by Axler, James

  The sec man studied the whitecoat. The man stood straight, but his shoulders were hunched, dark circles around his eyes. He was exhausted, possibly dying. "The nightmares are coming every night, aren't they?" he guessed.

  "Yes," Silas whispered, his face sagging. "It is becoming more difficult to concentrate each passing day."

  "Well, I could send out more patrols," the sec man ventured, leaning forward in his chair. "Cover the fields, as well as the roads and bridges. Try to find Ryan and others and chill them as quickly as possible."

  "Yes, do so. His death should end the nightmares and let me sleep again." His voice broke in a sob. "Sleep!"

  "But that would seriously weaken the defenses of the complex," Sheffield continued. "It might be best to recall all of our troops and concentrate our strength here. We can mine the roads and lay more traps. This project is too important to be derailed by some mutie-loving outlanders."

  "Which is why I am telling you this, as insurance against their possible arrival. If I should die—" Silas paused uncomfortably, his cheek twitching uncontrollably for a moment, "—or become insane, then you shall assume the mantle of authority and bring America back from these days of barbarism. Deathlands is ruled by the strongest, not the wisest. Stupidity reins, muties and cannibals roam in packs, healers tortured as sport to amuse drunk barons. The madness must be brought to an end at any price. America will be reborn!"

  "Victory or death," Sheffield said sarcastically.

  Silas grunted. "Precisely. And today we shall start to clean house. To remove some potentially dangerous trash."

  "Sir?" the sec man asked nervously.

  Wincing as he stood, Silas walked to a wall map, favoring his leg. When Tanner stabbed him with that trick sword, he had to have severed a nerve. The wound was healed, the muscles strong, yet Silas still limped like the old man he appeared to be. Just another debt to be paid.

  "Overton was sent to seize control of Front Royal, to turn it against the other villes in the area in a civil war. When they were weak, we would move in and forge the three largest into one huge city, the capital of New America. My America!"

  "But Overton failed," the major stated, "because of Ryan and the others."

  "Yes," Silas hissed, thumping his cane onto the floor. "So I am going to remove those three villes in case they decide to join forces against us. Look at this."

  The sec chief walked closer as Silas drew some freehand curves on the map with a black marker. "Bull Run is the farthest east, thus the easiest to target. Next is Casanova and finally Front Royal. I can only use the Kite once every twenty-four hours, so it will take three days before Front Royal will be reduced to ashes."

  "And I need targets to fire at." Silas lovingly stroked the map, smearing the lines. "Each time will give me greater control of the Kite, each use allowing me more access to its computers. In three days, I will crack the final codes and have total command over the orbiting power station."

  "And what does the dish have to do with this?" the major asked curiously.

  "That is what I need to punch a radio signal through the static and interference of the overhead storms and reach the Kite. How soon will the repairs be completed?"

  "Two days, three at the most."

  Silas smiled. "Ah, then in four days, we become the new rulers of America, and the great cleansing of humanity can finally begin. Thousands of the impure will die. No more muties! Isn't that glorious?"

  "Oh, yes," the major agreed, feeling the two hearts in his chest pound with anger. "What a wonderful day that will be for our people."

  AS THE GREENIES DRAGGED the humans back toward the arena, two loud reports split the night and the muties tumbled to the sidewalk with most of their heads removed. Holstering the blaster, Jak hurried around the curved building and inspected the sprawled man and woman.

  "Ryan," the teenager said softly, shaking him by the shoulder. "What happened?"

  The warrior struggled into consciousness. "Wags," Ryan hoarsely whispered. "Dozens of wags…"

  "Inside arena?" Jak asked eagerly.

  "Don't go! Plant fumes…" Ryan collapsed.

  Standing, Jak glanced the entrance to the arena and sniffed. He didn't smell anything but some flowers. What fumes? From the condition of Ryan's and Krysty's clothes it looked as if they were caught in the middle of hot sex, but while on a recce in hostile land? That didn't make sense.

  Adjusting what clothing they were still wearing to cover as much as possible, Jak again looked at the arena and made a decision. Raising the Colt Python, he loudly fired twice, then three times and once more. He quickly reloaded and waited for the rest of his friends.

  Minutes later, a long whistle cut the air. Cocking back the hammer of his .357 magnum pistol, Jak replied with two short whistles and the rest of the companions came charging into view.

  "We were going to the insurance company and heard the shots," J.B. said, easing the tension on the trigger of the Uzi. Then he spotted the nearly naked couple. "What the hell happened here?"

  "Ryan hauled out," the teenager said, glaring at the dark hallway of the building. "Muties tried drag back in."

  "Indeed," Doc rambled, removing his frock coat and draped it over Krysty. "And what happened to their clothes?"

  "Don't know," Jak answered, scratching his head. "Said wags inside. Also plant fumes."

  "Fumes?" Mildred carefully walked closer to the doorway and sniffed. Instantly, she felt her heart beat fast and a sudden rush of warmth between her legs. The physician backed away quickly and gulped in the clean desert air.

  "There's something odd with the atmosphere, sure enough." she stated, staring hard at J.B. for a moment before forcing her mind back to reality. What was wrong with her? All she could think about was sex! Was that the problem?

  Taking a lungful of air, Mildred walked into the entrance and waited. Nothing happened and she felt no different. Exhaling, the physician allowed herself a small sip of air, and her hips ached as her tingling breasts brushed against the soft fabric of her bra. Hastily, she rushed outside, gasping for breath.

  "What's wrong, Millie?" J.B. said, holding her by the arms.

  "S-some sort of drug," she replied, shaking. "Makes you crazy for sex. Probably once you go in, you never come out again."

  "So the wags are bait," Dean decided.

  "A logical deduction," Doc mused, leaning on his stick. "How utterly vulgar."

  "Utterly lethal," Mildred corrected. "The question is, how do we check inside? What we need are gas masks."

  "I know something just as good," J.B. said, slinging his blaster. "Got any shine?"

  The teenager produced a bottle with less than half an inch of brown fluid. "What for?"

  "Protection," the Armorer said, taking the bottle and splashing some of the homemade whiskey on a handkerchief.

  Breathing through the reeking cloth, he approached the sports arena. The alcohol fumes were giving him a slight headache, but aside from that he felt normal. Holding his breath while he anointed the cloth again, J.B. walked around the dead muties and ventured farther, past the stairs, to finally reach the playing field.

  In the dim moonlight, the scene explained itself. Bodies lay everywhere, and a huge blossoming flower sat in the middle of a hundred rusting wags. Their own backpacks were lying clearly in sight at the base of the huge plant. An offering to the god of the greenies, or bait for them? On a hunch, he fired a few rounds from the Uzi at the huge blossom. The stalk shook from the passage of the bullets, but there was no other effect. Realizing the shine was exhausted, J.B. retreated even faster than he entered.

  "The bastard thing must feed off the bodies as they rot away," he finished explaining to the others.

  "What if you were alone?" Dean asked.

  It was a good question. "Probably just do yourself to death," J.B. said, passing the boy his stuttergun. "However, there's enough wags in there for an army, some of them in good condition, I'm going to steal us some wheels to replace the horses."

/>   "Not enough," Jak stated, inspecting the bottle. "Here," Mildred said, passing over the bottle of witch hazel from her med kit. "Use it sparingly. That's all we have."

  J.B. removed the cap and took a sniff. "Whew! Even better than the shine. This'll work fine."

  "Not go alone. I come," Jak said, digging a rag from his jacket. It was stained with oil from cleaning his blaster, but still serviceable. "Get backpacks first?"

  "I'm going to chill that big flower first," J.B. corrected, shoving two more shells into the feed of his shotgun. "That seems to be the source of the drug."

  "How are you doing to ace the weed?" Dean asked, shouldering the Uzi. "Bullets didn't work."

  The Armorer frowned. "I know, and setting it on fire might only make the perfume deadly. We need some way to neutralize that bastard thing, kill it root and branch."

  "Maybe there is some herbicide in one of the stores," Mildred hesitantly suggested, glancing at the ruins. "No, these are office buildings and such. Not a hardware store or greenhouse in sight."

  "Explosives?" Jak asked.

  J.B. frowned. "If we had a lot, sure."

  "How about car batteries?" Doc suggested.

  "Yeah, not bad," J.B. said, considering the idea. "Good call. I think that should work fine. Jak with me. Doc, Dean, you two are on guard duty. Mildred, see what you can do with Ryan and Krysty. Don't start a fire. We aren't going be here that long."

  Holding the witch-hazel-soaked masks, the men stealthily entered the sports arena. The bones of a hundred corpses littered the floor, bits of clothing and boots visible amid the greenery. Backpacks and duffel bags were prominent lumps, and the barrels of discarded weapons were everywhere. The men walked hurriedly among the wags, inspecting them for damage and rust. Too many of the vehicles were civilian cars with bald tires, the bodies stripped of bumpers, seats and chrome to save weight and increase gas mileage. Few had hoods, and none had batteries.

  Spotting a van in decent condition, J.B. used a knife blade to flip the grille lock, lift the hood and check inside. The battery was gone like the rest, a corroded mess eaten away by its own internal acids.

  "Here," Jak announced, lugging a battery into view. The lead terminals on top were covered with flaky white material, but the casing seemed intact.

  Removing the plastic caps with one hand, J.B. kept his mouth covered as he walked the heavy battery to the plant and awkwardly poured out the concentrated sulfuric acid onto the base of the stalk. Instantly, the plant seemed to lose color and the aroma in the air took on a sour smell.

  Splashing on more witch hazel, Jak brought over another battery and did the same thing to the flower. Now the leaves began to wilt, the blossom closing its petals protectively. Dropping the dead battery, Jak flexed his hand and a knife slid into his palm. Slashing at the fibrous petals, he hacked open a hole, and J.B. poured the contents of another old battery directly inside. Now visibly wilting, the flower withered and began to turn brown.

  Closely watching the roots they were standing on, the men nervously waited a few minutes to make sure the acid had worked. Acid rain in the Deathlands could strip the flesh off a man's bones it was so strong. But out here on the East Coast, the rain wasn't that strong, and was coming with less frequency. That was why Virginia and Georgia had living green trees, and not just endless sterile sand.

  Experimentally, J.B. lowered his cloth and inhaled. "Dark night, what a smell!" He coughed, waving a hand at the air. "It's like burning tires mixed with shit and rotten eggs."

  "Feel okay?" Jak mumbled behind his wad of cloth.

  "I feel like vomiting!" the man replied, holding his nose shut and gasping for air through his mouth. "Shit! I can taste it!"

  Hesitantly, Jak lowered his mask and risked a sniff. "Smelled worse," he said, while pocketing the damp rag. "Not by much, though."

  "Come on, let's find a wag we can use."

  RYAN AWOKE to the sound of an engine. Groggily, the man grabbed for his blaster and tried to sit up. "Not taking me anywhere!" he snarled, fumbling at the gun belt.

  "Hey!" a familiar voice shouted.

  Dizzy, Ryan tried to focus his vision and realized he was fully dressed and sitting on the sidewalk resting against the facade of the arena. Mildred was beside him, her fingers on his wrist checking his pulse. Doc and Dean stood a few yards away with blasters held at the ready, obviously on guard duty.

  "What happened?" he asked around a mouthful of hairy cotton. His head was throbbing, and every muscle was sore.

  Mildred released his wrist and offered a canteen, which was gratefully accepted. "Jak chilled some greenies trying to drag you and Krysty back inside the arena."

  "Fucking plant!" Ryan snarled, forcing himself to stand. "Don't go inside! The perfume is a drag!"

  She nodded and took back the canteen. "Yeah, we figured that out pretty quick. Put some witch hazel on rags, and J.B. and Jak aced the flower and got us a wag."

  Grunting in reply, Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer and checked the clip. It was empty, and he seemed to have no more loaded magazines. Fireblast, how many rounds had he fired to get them out of the building? Loose rounds were sewn into his jacket, a few more in the pocket, and Ryan started thumbing bullets into an exhausted clip.

  "Glad to hear it's chilled," he stated grimly. "Where's Krysty? How is she?"

  "Fine, lover," the woman answered from the darkness. She was sitting nearby on a piece of rubble, massaging her temples. The woman's wild abundance of red hair was hanging limp. He had never seen her so tired before. "Just don't expect much loving soon. Feel like I just lost my cherry during a fistfight."

  "Had to," Ryan stated, slamming in the slip and jacking the slide, but clicking on the safety.

  She hushed him with a finger on the lips. "I know. You saved us both," Krysty said. "Thank you. I have a nukestorm of a headache, but that's better than the alternative."

  Revving engines sounded again, and a Hummer rolled from the building, easily passing through the wide entrance. At the steering wheel, J.B. bounced the wag down the front steps and parked on the sidewalk. Jak stood in the rear, his hands gripping an M-60 machine gun that rested on the gimbal of a short steel post, a long belt of ammo hanging from the breech.

  "Replacement for the horses," J.B. said with pride, turning off the engine. "It's in great shape with a full tank of juice. We got our backpacks again, plus a ton of ammo, six Kalashnikovs, the 7.62 mm machine gun, half a case of grens and two LAWs. No food, but we're armed for war."

  "Better," Jak said, resting an arm on the M-60. "We know location."

  Ryan came closer. "You found a map."

  A nod. "Couple of blue shirts are staring at the dirt inside. They must have stopped here on a recce, just like us."

  "Indeed," Doc stated. "So where are they located?"

  "Tennessee." J.B. grinned widely, holding out a folded piece of plastic. "Big red circle around Shiloh battlefield."

  "Excellent!"

  "Idiots," Krysty snorted.

  Accepting the map, Ryan studied it closely. "So they're right next to the redoubt. About a hundred miles away."

  "Less than a day in a Hummer," Dean added, climbing into the rear of the vehicle and finding his backpack. Undoing the straps, he stuffed his pockets with spare rounds for his blaster, and stuffed a chunk of smoked fish whole into his mouth, chewing contentedly.

  "It would be a day's journey if we travel straight there," Ryan agreed, rubbing his cheek. Then the man hawked and spit to clear his throat. There was still a faint taste of the perfume in his mouth. Damn stuff was like glue. "But we're not going to travel directly to their base. The blues are smart. There might be more land mines and traps on the roads. How's the fuel?"

  "Tanks are full of condensed fuel. That'll last us over a thousand miles. Plus, we have a can of regular juice."

  "Even better. So we take two days, mebbe three at the most." Ryan spread the map on the hood of the Hummer and the others gathered around. "We'll do an end run and head straight for this va
lley west of Shiloh. If they're expecting us, they'll be watching the north, east and south, but why waste sec men guarding their backs?"

  "Sounds good," J.B. said, starting the engine. "Climb aboard and let's smoke this ville."

  "I just hope Overton didn't have a real army," Mildred said, taking a seat in the rear. "You know, thousands of men, tanks, planes. Sounds crazy, but he did have brand-new AK-47s, unlimited ammo, Hummers, radios. Who knows what else?"

  Spotting his Steyr on the floor, Ryan took the passenger seat next to the driver. "We'll recce them from a distance, soft and low," he said, checking over the blaster. He had no recollection of losing it inside the arena, which only showed how far gone he had been. Hit his woman and dropped his weapon. Fireblast, he had to have been totally out of his mind.

  "You sure that flower is aced?" Ryan asked grimly, settling the longblaster into the crook of his arm.

  "It's triple chilled," J.B. stated confidently. "Shriveled like bacon in a pan."

  "Has there been any problems with the greenies?" Krysty asked. "I wonder why they haven't attacked yet."

  "Killed god," Jak said, patting the vented barrel of the long M-60 blaster. "Scare most folks."

  "Wished I could have seen it," Dean stated, loading another clip and tucking it away in his jacket.

  "Too dangerous," Mildred countered, setting her med kit on the floor between her boots. "You're too young. The perfume might have driven you permanently insane."

  Then she hid a smile and added, "And Doc is too damn old."

  "Indeed, madam," Doc rumbled in his deep stentorian voice. "Perhaps you are unaware that some men are milk, while others are whiskey. Some sour and turn bitter with age, while the years make others stronger."

  "What a load of crap," she snorted, grinning in spite of herself. "Crazy old coot."

  "Ah, but that is my story and I am sticking to it."

  Starting the Hummer, J.B. checked the gauges one last time, and looked longingly at the dark video monitor set in the control hump between the front seats. If the radio worked, the onboard computer probably did, also. But without a CD-ROM to boot the system, it was useless.