Judas Strike - Deathlands 54

by James Axler

  Something long went by the man, as silent as a dream, but he saw what it was and drew the panga with his free hand. Then another lasso snaked out of the clouds and Ryan caught it on the blade, slicing the loop apart, and firing back along the rope. A man cried out and the rope went slack.

  As if in response, Krysty's voice cried out, her blaster blazing steadily. More voices were raised, the smoke and steel walls distorting their origins. A riderless horse galloped past Ryan, almost knocking him down. The LeMat discharged five, six, seven times in a row, the last answered by an anguished scream. Slapping in a fresh clip, Ryan grunted in approval.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of splintering wood, followed by the sound of two blasters firing together. Then it abruptly stopped. Pocketing the gren, Ryan headed for the baron's home. As he went past the well, a spear stabbed out of the swirling fumes, the shaft coming so close it passed through his black hair, ripping some out by the roots. Ignoring the minor pain, Ryan spun and fired from the hip. There was the meaty thump of a slug hitting flesh, but again no cry of pain. The invaders seemed to make noise only when they died; wounds meant nothing to them.

  Huffing horses were running everywhere in the compound, the bones of the dead audibly cracking under their hooves. A flintlock discharged, a revolver answered, and then there was silence. No sound or movement for several minutes.

  Barely breathing, Ryan stood stock-still, straining to hear anything. But the eerie quiet continued. Even the scavenger birds were gone, and the complete lack of noise seemed thicker than the roiling clouds of gray smoke.

  Chapter Seven

  Chaos and pain filled J.B.'s world as he sluggishly came awake.

  He was tied wrist to ankle, bouncing on something hard that kept slamming into his stomach, knocking the breath out of his lungs, and he was facedown with the ground moving past his face at great speed. Dark night! He was tied over the back of a galloping horse. A big one, white with black stripes on its rump.

  There were a lot of horses, fifteen, maybe twenty, and he caught jumping glimpses of the riders. Gray camou! So that's how they did it. Clever bastards. The group was racing along the dried riverbed, the hard-packed earth cracked in a mosaic pattern. The stink of sour horse sweat and badly cured leather nearly made him vomit, but he fought it. With his mouth gagged, he could easily drown if his stomach rebelled. Out of the hundreds of ways to die, that was suddenly the worst he could think of.

  Struggling against his bonds, he tried to see the rider on his horse, but there was a bundle in the way. In horror he realized it was three of the gray men roped together and stacked across the back of the beast. J.B. was near the rump, which explained the severe jostling. They took their dead? Oh, no.

  Then a familiar sight swung into view, bouncing off the chest of the huge animal. His munitions bag was hanging from the bone pommel of the saddle, the wire stock of the Uzi sticking out the top flap. Now he had a goal. J.B. tightened his stomach muscles to handle the pounding, and worked out a couple of plans in his mind. He knew that time was against him; moments, not minutes counted here. Two plans came to mind, each seeming more dangerous than the other as he mentally reviewed them. But the man couldn't think of a third, so he had to use one of these.

  Decision made, J.B. pulled on his bonds as hard as he could, the ropes tightening painfully on his wrists and ankles, but that gave him some slack. Bracing himself, the Armorer dived forward to slide around the beast and was suddenly looking at its stomach. The hind legs started banging into his side like sledgehammers, and the ground slammed into his back so hard he feared bones would break. Breathing was impossible in this position, and J.B. fought to suck in enough air through his nostrils to stay alive. His arms felt as if they were coming out their sockets, and he squinted as hard as possible to keep his glasses from flying off.

  Dark night, this was the worst idea he had ever come up with, but it was too late now to stop. They'd chill him, or blind him once they discovered he was trying to escape. This was his only chance.

  Swinging back and forth to the rhythm of the hind legs, J.B. got the timing down and jabbed out with his elbow to stab the horse directly in the testes. The stallion screamed and kicked backward. Caught by surprise, the rider tumbled over the animal and hit the ground hard, rolling wildly with his arms and legs failing like a broken puppet.

  Guttural laughter sounded from the riders of other horses, and the mount he was on abruptly slowed to a canter, the beast turned to snap at the man dangling under its vulnerable stomach, bringing the munitions bag close enough for J.B. to snatch the wire stock and haul the Uzi free. Timing pencils and coils of fuse came with the blaster and tumbled away, but the Armorer paid them no attention.

  Several horses came to a stop, and men began to dismount when a woman screamed, and the startled riders turned their attention to her for a moment.

  But that split second was all that J.B. needed. Flipping the weapon over, he worked the bolt with his jaw and clumsily placed the barrel of the blaster to the knotted ropes and fired a short burst. The horse bucked wildly at the blaster fire from underneath, making him drop the weapon, but the rope was torn to pieces and he fell to the ground.

  Heavy hooves stomped all around J.B., sinking inches into the soil, and he frantically rolled clear. Then he threw himself back under the beast to reclaim his blaster. Angry voices sounded from the advancing gray men, and several drew big flintlock pistols. Another uncoiled a lasso from his belt.

  "Fuck you!" J.B. shouted through his mouthful of rag and started firing on full-auto, spraying the coldhearts with half a clip, turning quickly in a full circle. Those closest to him fell over riddled with copper-jacketed lead. Startled by the noise, the horses bucked, and the riders cried out, clutching the reins with both hands, unable to attack for the moment. Then the Uzi jammed, and J.B. feverishly worked the bolt to clear the malfunctioning cartridge. Not now.

  Horses circled him, kicking up clouds of dust. A blaster fired in a thunderous boom, the black powder blowing an acrid cloud of smoke over the area, and his fedora was yanked off his head by the near miss. Shitfire, too close! Cold adrenaline filled his body and, slamming his fist onto the breech, J.B. got the round loose and started to fire 9 mm rounds at the masked riders. He jerked the barrel of the Uzi away from a horse with a woman bound across its back exactly as he had been. Then he recognized, the ragged clothing. It was Ann!

  Just then a lasso snaked out of nowhere to land around the man's shoulders. As J.B. jerked away, the rope drew tight and he was yanked off his feet, but he kept hold of the Uzi. This was how the bastards got him in the ville. It wasn't going to work twice.

  Another landed on his boots, and he managed to slip out of the closing loop. Running toward the rider holding the rope loosened the lasso, and J.B. shrugged his way out. A third flew toward him, and the Armorer blew it out of the air with a hip shot. Going to single rounds, he fired again and again, constantly moving to avoid any more of the those freakishly accurate lassos.

  A riderless horse slammed into his side, knocking J.B. to the ground. Hooves pounded everywhere, one coming so close it grazed his cheek. Hugging the Uzi, he rolled away to avoid the smashing hooves. He fired twice more and the blaster clicked empty.

  Throwing the weapon at a gray man, J.B. took off at a run, pelting down the riverbed with all of his strength. The banks were too high to climb easily. He had to find another section where he could get into the jungle. The horses and lassos would be useless there. He'd have a fighting chance to live.

  Flintlocks fired from behind, and the ground puffed as the miniballs plowed into the hard soil. That only spurred him on to greater speed. Then he heard galloping hooves, and he knew they were after him again. No way could he outrun a horse, even with the load of dead bodies each was carrying.

  Turning in midstep, J.B. dashed for the nearest embankment and started to scramble up the side of the riverbed. The soil broke loose under his hands, and he kept sliding back down. But he was still making headway
. Less than a yard to go, then he slid back two feet. Throwing himself for the edge so tantalizingly close, J.B. grabbed hold of the grassy top when a flurry of blasterfire rang out, and he braced for the arrival of the hot pain.

  Then the blasters roared again, and he realized those weren't flintlocks shooting. Glancing over a shoulder, J.B. saw the rest of the companions charging up the riverbed in the old bulldozer, Ryan in the shovel and steadily triggering the Steyr. Another gray rider fell, and the last one turned to flee when Doc unleashed the LeMat. The handcannon boomed like doomsday in the confines of the riverbed, and the rider flew out of the saddle to land on the ground in a crumpled heap with most of his skull blown away.

  "Get those horses!" J.B. shouted, then released his grip and slid down the embankment on the seat of his pants.

  As Ryan turned off the dozer, several of the companions started to walk toward the horses, talking softly and making clucking noises with their tongues. The beasts were skittish, but obviously well-trained as they didn't bolt. Soon the five horses were gathered by the reins and brought back to the dozer.

  "Whoa, there. Easy does it," Krysty said in a soothing voice, tethering the reins to one of the hydraulic lifters of the dozer. The animals sniffed curiously at the huge machine, but didn't shy away. Then she noticed the heavy scarring on their flanks, not from spurs, but whips. The horses had been beaten into submission like any human slave, the will to rebel crushed completely. They wouldn't have dared to run away. Fear ruled their hearts.

  "We're going to need those animals to get Ann," J.B. said, limping over to the dozer. His clothes were torn and bloody in spots, his hands turning purple from the tight ropes cutting off the circulation.

  "We know," Jak said, producing a blade. Carefully, he cut away the remnants of rope from the man's wrists.

  "Thanks," J.B. said, rubbing his sore wrists. There were chafe marks on top of his old scars. It wasn't the first time he'd been bound by rope.

  "They came in through the windows. Almost got me and Mildred, too," Dean stated. "I think they knew it was the baron's home."

  "Want a drink?" Krysty offered.

  "Dark night, yes!"

  The canteen was passed over and the Armorer drank greedily, the excess running down his cheeks. Then he poured some into his palms and washed the dirt off his face.

  "Better," he said, returning the canteen. Then he hawked and spit, and bloody saliva hit the ground. Damn, busted a tooth. "Got my hat?"

  "In the dozer. What happened?" Mildred asked, checking his face and ribs. There didn't seem to be any serious damage, just a lot of fresh bruises forming. The wiry little man was as tough as old boot leather.

  Briefly, J.B. explained while reclaiming his dropped blaster. The Uzi was dusty and dirty, but undamaged. Ryan passed over a box of 9 mm rounds, and the man reloaded the 30-round clip. All of the Armorer's spare clips and ammo were now with the gray men. Plus his munitions bag.

  A few yards away, Doc went to one of the corpses and pulled off a gray mask. The face underneath seemed perfectly normal, no obvious mutations or differences. How odd. One at a time, he went through their clothing and found several flintlocks, plus several pounds of black powder and lead shot. He filled his ammo pouch and left the rest. As far as the old man was concerned, the abundance of black powder for his Civil War blaster was the only good thing about these wretched islands.

  "Five horses, seven people," Ryan said, checking the cinches on the saddles. "Going to be slow traveling. But we've got no choice. Ann helped me escape. We have to at least try to get her free."

  "Agreed."

  Stroking the neck of a horse, Krysty looked up the riverbed. "They'll know we're coming."

  "But not when," Ryan said. "We'll use that."

  "We had best tend our mounts before departing," Doc rumbled in his deep voice. "They have been used most strenuously for quite a while."

  While Dean climbed the bank and got some green grass for the animals, the companions let the horses drink from cupped hands, but not too much. They didn't want to slow them down. When the grass arrived, the poor things ate as if ravenous. Afterward, Mildred went to the clear stream, intending to refill the canteens, but upon testing the water she found it was heavily polluted. Totally undrinkable.

  "You okay to ride?" Krysty asked in concern. "Took quite a beating."

  J.B. slapped the clip into the rapidfire and worked the bolt, chambering a round. "Try and stop me."

  "The dozer works," Dean offered, "and we have juice. Found a cache in one of the cargo containers."

  "Too slow, and they'd hear us coming for miles," Ryan stated. "Besides, we used most of the juice getting here. Had it in high gear all the way. Damn near blew the engine."

  "Correction," Mildred replied, looking at the growing puddle of fluids on the ground. "We did blow the engine. Looks like a cracked block."

  "Aced," Jak agreed.

  "Then we ride," Ryan said, stepping into the stirrup of a big stallion and hoisting himself into the saddle. The animal was larger than a normal horse, like those back at Front Royal. Its rib cage was noticeably wider, its legs longer. It probably could run forever without getting tired. With practiced hands, he patted its muscular neck and scratched behind the ears. The horse snuffled with pleasure in response. Even as a kid, Ryan had always liked horses, and any animal worth its brass responded to kindness better than the whip. The gray men were triple stupe.

  "Just like the Carolinas," Dean said, climbing into the saddle behind Jak.

  "Wish we had the Leviathan," Mildred said, as J.B. offered her a hand, and she awkwardly climbed onto the beast right behind him.

  "When find, what do with girl?" Jak asked, adjusting the reins. He was pleasantly surprised to find the horse was bridle wise and well tempered. "Could make litter and drag behind."

  "Ann will ride on her own horse," Ryan said, gently kicking his heels into the stallion's flank. "There'll be plenty of extra mounts by then."

  The companions started off in single file, staying very close to the left bank to hide their approach from any scouts in the northern trees. The majority of the island stretched to the north, so that would be the logical place for the gray men to go. The plan made sense, but it was only a guess. They could have a ship moored in the southern harbor.

  Keeping the animals at a leisurely trot, the companions watched the embankments for any sign that the riders had climbed out of the natural passageway. The miles passed and the sides slowly lowered in height until only a few feet tall, easy passage for the long-legged horses.

  "Over there," Doc whispered, gesturing with his stick at the embankment. Dark earth showed where the ground had been churned from the passage of hooves.

  Shaking the reins, Jak rode over to that section and studied the pattern of the scuff marks in the dirt.

  "Bullshit," he announced. "Fake trail."

  Walking his mount to the other side of the riverbed, he slid off and looked over the ground. Not a mark showed in the soil, and not a leaf was out of place in the grass.

  "This way," Jak stated without hesitation. Drawing his blaster, the teen stepped out of the riverbed and started through the field of green grass.

  Dean took the reins and led the way, the rest of the companions following close behind. Nobody questioned the Cajun. Jak was the best tracker among them.

  Ryan moved to the left, the Steyr resting across the saddle, and J.B. took the right side, the Uzi tight in his fist. Both men scrutinized the trees ahead of them, while Doc and Mildred kept a watch behind.

  The field stretched for more than a mile, trees growing in scattered stands, which grew closer and closer together until the companions were proceeding through a lush grove. The trees gave off the rich aroma of eucalyptus, and Mildred pulled off several handfuls to stuff into her med kit.

  Several times, Jak altered course for no discernible reason, and the others followed, even though there was no indication of anything having passed that way.

  "Damn, they're g
ood," Krysty said softly, in annoyance.

  "We're better," Ryan answered, tracking a motion in the trees. Then a monkey with four arms scampered out of the greenery, pursued by a gang of norm chimps, who snarled and slavered in blind fury, the bull males culling the troop of a mutie.

  The sky was darkening when they arrived at a large vista of black stone. The irregular plan of congealed lava extended for hundreds of yards. Jak didn't even pause as he changed direction and headed for a low rise, a momentary swell in the lava flow that had become trapped forever in time. Cresting the rise, he easily walked down a gentle slope into a deep ravine. At the bottom was a pre-dark road, the pavement stained and cracked, weeds growing tall through every crevice.

  Even in the early-evening light, Ryan could see that several of the stalks were bending back into shape from something recent pushing them aside.

  "Here less than an hour ago," he said softly.

  Jak nodded his agreement.

  The ancient road meandered through the dense weeds as if based upon the path of a snake. The cracks became wider and more pronounced until the slabs of pavement were islands in the soggy earth. Soon they were riding through a marsh, the muddy water almost a foot deep. Clumps of decaying trees dotted the surface, and occasionally the bloated body of a drowned animal floated by.

  "Watch for pools of still water," Ryan warned, slowing his horse. "Could be a sinkhole. Break a leg stepping into one of those."

  "Or quicksand," Dean added, frowning.

  Following the wash of the stagnant water, the companions walked their mounts through the sodden landscape until the mud turned to grass, and they were back on dry ground again. Another forest of tropical trees grew to the east, stretching to the mountains, tall peaks of brown stone that reached for the clouds. To the west and north was the start of the jungle, the array of bushes, bamboo and vines seeming impassable without machinery.