Judas Strike - Deathlands 54

by James Axler

  Exiting the dungeon, Kinnison hesitated to listen for the sounds of marching guards coming this way, but this wing of the mansion was quiet. His heart pounding, the baron walked barefoot along the cold stones, pausing only to snatch a pillow from a chair set close to a window. There was some kiwi fruit in a bowl, and he gobbled it down without peeling it first, the tangy juices running down his swaddled chin. It tasted better than sex, and the baron wondered how he could have ever thought the fruits were too tart to eat. Simply wonderful.

  Soft singing could be heard from outside, the words drifting through the windows as he proceeded along a hallway. Celebrating his demise, were they? Somebody would pay for that.

  Reaching the main corridor, Kinnison slipped behind some tapestries and bypassed a group of visiting barons chatting with the ville quartermaster. Selling them Firebirds, eh? More fools to chill when he got the chance.

  Darting around a corner, he surprised a maid and he stabbed her in the heart, leaving the blade in place to hold down the bleeding until he dragged her into a closet.

  Exiting the closet, Kinnison saw that the corridor was clear, a lone armed guard standing before the closed doors of the throne room. That shotgun was real trouble, but he had no choice. Summoning his courage, Kinnison sheathed the blade, then with blaster and pillow ready, he made his run toward the sec man, moving as fast and as quietly as he could. When the baron was only a yard away, the sec man spun, reaching for his alley-sweeper, then balked in surprise.

  "Baron Kinnison!" the sec man cried out.

  Shoving the pillow against the sec man's chest, Kinnison shot him directly in the heart, the cushion muffling the shot. The man sagged, and Kinnison hauled him to a chair, propping up his head with the reverse side of the pillow, and placed the shotgun across his lap. Ah, quite lifelike.

  Kinnison felt troubled about the death, but it would have been unwise to waste a moment learning if the man was glad to see him, or ready to shout a warning. The baron consoled himself with the fact that every throne in history was built on the dead. Such was the way of the world.

  Going to a suit of armor standing in a nearby wall niche, Kinnison lifted the visor and fumbled about inside until finding the switch. He lost a fingernail forcing the mechanism to operate. Been too long since it had last been oiled.

  As the pedestal disengaged, he pushed it into the wall and squeezed his bulk into the cramped passageway beyond. Bandages and skin were scraped off painfully until he was deep enough into the passage before he could swing the secret door closed again. Obviously, the baron had been much thinner when he last used it.

  Lighting the candle he had been saving from the stash in his cell, the baron forced himself along the passageway, the rough bricks tearing the scabs off his sores, the salty damp clothing burning like red-hot coals against his diseased flesh. It was becoming difficult to breathe in the cramped quarters, but Kinnison forced himself onward. Victory or death.

  Reaching a flight of stairs formed by the back side of stone lintels, Kinnison froze as the sound of marching could be clearly heard from the hallway underneath, closely followed by blasterfire and wild shouting. Nuke those feebs! His army was attacking early. Now racing against the clock, Kinnison maneuvered faster through the narrow crevice until reaching a small storage room hidden inside the thick walls of the predark post office. Panting from the exertion, he fumbled with a wooden chest, breaking the wax seal along the edges, and extracted a bundle of oiled cloth. Lovingly, he unwrapped the machine pistol and quickly thumbed an empty clip full of fat greasy bullets from a plastic sandwich box. One of the most important lessons his father had ever taught the young baron was to never leave a rapidfire loaded for long periods. The spring in the clip would get weak over time, making the blaster jam exactly when you would need it the most. Vital data, indeed.

  Going to a spyhole, Kinnison worked the bolt on the MAC-10 and peeked out at the roof of the mansion. A squad of sec men was smoking seaweed cigars and casually talking as they milled about. The news of the mass escape hadn't reached up here yet, but it would soon. He had to move.

  Carefully, the baron counted their numbers until he was sure all of them were in sight at the same time. Then putting the barrel of the MAC-10 machine pistol to the hole, he cut loose at their shins, blowing away clothing and flesh until the screaming men were lying on the roof, and he emptied the clip into their faces.

  Pushing open the panel, Kinnison now heard the alarm bell and knew he had won the race by only a heartbeat. Going to the Firebird launch pod at the edge of the roof, Kinnison looked down upon his domain, savoring the sight. Then he turned and, lifting a Firebird from the pod, hugged it close until his fat arms warmed the missile and he felt a stirring of the pilot within. Leaning close, Kinnison whispered the words of command to the tiny mutie and slid the Firebird back into place. Then he lit the fuse with the lantern that was always present and watched it sizzle steadily. Ten minutes to go. All was ready.

  Waddling to the doorway, he slid the external bolts home, sealing off the roof from anybody who might alter his settings. Then returning to the secret passageway, Kinnison worked his way to the ground floor, leaving streaks on the walls from his forced travels. His shirt and pants were in rags, most of his bandages flapping loose, exposing his horrible mottled flesh beneath. The oozing sores still stung from the bath of salt water from the jailers, and Kinnison was ashamed to admit losing a finger in the passageway.

  At the suit of armor, Kinnison looked through a spyhole into the corridor to make sure it was safe to leave, but saw two more armed sec men staring aghast at the dead man in the chair. The tall private shook the corpse, and the shotgun clattered to the floor, the body slumping sideways to expose bloody clothing.

  "Nukeshit, this guy is aced!" he cried, backing away.

  As the other guard stuffed two fingers in his mouth to whistle for more sec men, Kinnison rammed the MAC-10 into the opening and fired off a sweeping burst. Removing the blaster, he checked the results and was pleased to see the guards prone on the floor, bleeding profusely.

  But even with the rapidfire behind the stone-block wall, the noise was bound to bring help. Leaving the passageway, Kinnison walked to the double doors on the throne room and peeked through the keyhole. Sure enough, Griffin the usurper was holding court with the new leaders of the island, discussing the unexpected revolt.

  "How did they get out?" Baron Griffin demanded, banging a fist on the arm of the throne. "And what happened to the guards?"

  An officer saluted. "We have no idea, my lord. The doors weren't battered down or the locks shot off. It's as if they were opened with the proper keys."

  "Kinnison," the new baron growled. "I don't know how, but somehow that fat bag of pus is behind this."

  "Colonel, take a squad and find out if the former baron is still in his cell," Griffin demanded, worrying a fingernail.

  "We have, my lord," another replied. "But he's long gone. Probably hidden deep in the jungle somewhere."

  "Not yet," Kinnison growled as he entered the room, the chattering MAC-10 mowing down the front line of sec men and barons. The rest dived for cover behind their chairs and the food-laden buffet table.

  "You!" Griffin shouted, drawing a blaster.

  Swinging around the chattering machine pistol, Kinnison peppered the chancellor on the throne, tearing out gouts of wood from the arms of the chair, throwing off Griffin's aim. His blaster barked twice, hitting nothing. Then Kinnison rode the bucking rapidfire into a tighter grouping and tore Griffin apart, blowing away his fingers, shattering an elbow, breaking his knees and removing his manhood in a barrage of hot lead. The 9 mm rounds stitched a zigzagging path across his body, the spent brass arching through the air to land tinkling on the floor.

  Bleeding from a dozen locations, the mutilated man tried to rise, but instead he fell to the stone floor, twitching and choking, drowning in his own blood.

  Putting a burst into the ceiling to capture everyone's attention, Baron Kinnison slapp
ed in his last clip and walked boldly into the room, covering the crowd with his smoking weapon. Many of the sec men had weapons out, but none dared to fire, unsure if the baron was alone or if squads of soldiers were en route to the throne room to back his play. Exactly what Kinnison had been counting on— their fear of betrayal. Like the thief frantic with worry that others would rob his stolen treasure, the traitors expected treachery from others.

  "I'm the baron of this ville," Kinnison stated loudly, glaring at them from within his swaddling bandages. "And if I don't rule here, then nobody does. Surrender, or the island will be destroyed."

  "Can't chill us all with only one blaster," a captain stated grimly, his hand yanking back the hammer on his mammoth handcannon.

  "Don't need to," Kinnison replied. "In a few minutes every Firebird on this island will launch, streak high into the sky and then curve back to blow this mansion and the ville below to pieces. The powder mills, the armory, all have been targeted. Maturo Island will burn, and nothing can stop them but my word."

  Incredibly, the fat man then tossed the blaster aside and casually walked across the room to sit in the throne.

  "Swear an oath of loyalty and obedience to me," he said, flipping over a hand, "or die. Your choice."

  "It's a bluff," a lieutenant said, licking dry lips.

  Suddenly, there was a roar as a Firebird launched from overhead.

  "That was from the roof!" a sergeant exclaimed.

  "The first of hundreds," Kinnison said slowly, trying to heighten the tension. Their fear was the only tool he had to regain the throne. This trick either worked, or he died. It was that simple. All or nothing. Victory or death.

  Holstering his piece, a young corporal went to one knee. "We are yours to command, Lord Baron," he said.

  Kinnison spent precious moments studying the sec man. He had to be a new recruit as the face was unknown. Clean shaved and bald, the sec man moved with the grace of a jungle cat, only small scars marking his face. His gun belt was woven canvas, not the usual black leather, and the handles of his handcannons were heavily carved. Some sort of a tattoo peeked out from under a sleeve, and a gold earring hung from a lobe. A former sailor. How interesting.

  "What's your name?" the baron ordered, fighting off a stomach spasm. His need for more jolt was making itself known again.

  "Rochar Langford, my lord," the young man answered calmly.

  Kinnison was impressed; the man wasn't afraid. Amazing, and potentially useful. The baron grandly gestured. "Your oath is accepted. Rise, Chancellor Rochar Langford."

  "Ch-chancellor?" Langford gasped, then collected himself and gave a salute. "Sir, yes, sir!"

  Realizing the untenable position of indecision, the rest of the people in attendance also knelt and swore to obey the baron. The pledges of fidelity were strong, and well delivered. But Kinnison coldly remembered when they had given the exact same oath many years ago, before the revolt. His grandfather used to say that promises were like pie crusts, made to be broken.

  "My lord, what about the Firebirds?" a major asked anxiously, glancing at the ceiling as if he could see the missiles streaking through the air.

  "They have been neutralized," Kinnison stated, and waited. There was a long dramatic pause, and the baron feared he had timed the blast wrong when a powerful explosion sounded from outside.

  Surreptitiously, the sec men exchanged glances, wondering how the hell the fat man could control the Firebirds without speaking directly to them. Settling into his throne, Kinnison was pleased to see the fear of his unknown abilities fill their faces. Excellent. It would be quite a while before he was challenged again.

  "Chancellor!" Baron Kinnison snapped.

  Directing some servants to drag away the body of Griffin, Langford turned. "My lord?"

  "Send a squad of sec men to collect the escaped prisoners and chain them in the powder mill. We will need their cells. Soon enough the dungeon will be packed with traitors waiting for execution."

  The crowd of barons and officers didn't take that news well, and several began to quietly slip out of the throne room.

  "I'll handle it personally, sir," Langford replied, watching the door close behind the officers. "Sergeant, take a squad and follow those men. Don't let them leave the island without my direct authorization."

  "Yes, sir," the sec man said, saluting.

  Kinnison smiled. Competent help, at last. "Good man. Then release the carrier falcons to our peteys and sailing ships. They are to stop hunting pirates and muties to concentrate on locating the outlander Ryan and his group. I want a recce of every ville within a five-day sail."

  "Sir!"

  "And increase the reward to weapons, powder and slaves."

  "It will be done."

  A lieutenant cleared his throat. "My lord, Griffin ordered their immediate deaths. Should we now have the troops try to capture them alive?"

  "No! Chill them all on sight," Baron Kinnison declared with a frown. "Except for the two women. Break their arms to keep them from escaping and bring them to Maturo Island."

  "Yes, my lord!"

  As the guard raced away with the orders, Kinnison smiled to himself. Yes, the outlander sluts were perfect. Under torture they might tell many important things. And if they knew nothing useful, well, he needed new wives to start trying again for a son. Maybe several this time. Fresh meat should do the job nicely.

  That was, for as long as they lived.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Try it again!" Ryan shouted, putting his weight behind the tree branch and shoving the end deeper into the mud under the stuck tire. Getting ready, the rest of the companions put their shoulders to the mired bus and dug in their boots.

  "Third time is the charm," Doc muttered.

  "Shut up, you old coot," Mildred growled, squeezed tight between J.B. and Dean.

  "Here we go!" Krysty shouted out the side window, and started the engine, blue exhaust pouring from the tailpipes. Then pumping the gas pedal, the woman shifted gears and stomped on the clutch, rocking the long wag back and forth.

  The companions pushed as the back tires began to spin freely in the slick mud, sending out a spray of muck until smoke rose from the hot rubber. The wag started to inch forward, then Ryan cried out as the tree branch broke from his grip and sailed off into the nearby trees.

  "Kill the engine!" Ryan spit, flexing his stinging hands. "Save the juice!"

  As the engine dieseled off, the wag promptly settled into the mud once more. Fireblast! After all they had been through, to be stopped by something like this. Krysty had carefully avoided the roads and cut across barren fields, pausing only to let Ryan set fire to the savanna to hide their trail. Going miles out of the way, J.B. blew up a bridge and tried to make it seem they had crossed to the other side first. Then they drove off with tree branches tied to the bumper to erase the tire marks. Jak took a turn behind the wheel, driving the wag down the bed of a shallow river, so the water would wash away any marks, then started into the mountains and drove back out over the wag's tracks to lay a fake trail. Reaching the grasslands, the companions were confident of not being followed. Then they encountered the mud.

  "Mebbe we should empty the bus," Dean suggested, rubbing his shoulder where it had been pressed against the wag. "Make it lighter."

  "Wouldn't help," J.B. stated, shifting his stance in the mucky soil. "Not when we're already this deep."

  "Acing mud." Jak scowled in annoyance, sliding off his jacket to toss it through the open back door of the wag. His shirt was sleeveless, and the hard rippling muscles in his pale arms were clearly defined. As were countless scars.

  Using a strip of cloth to bind her beaded hair, Mildred said, "This is more like quicksand than mud."

  "A rose by any other name," Doc rumbled, brushing some speckles off the frills of his shirt. He was getting filthy, and thought that he'd have to ask Emily to soak it as soon as he got back to keep the material from permanently staining.

  "Hey, any block and tackle in th
e wag?" Dean asked, cracking his knuckles, exactly as his father often did. "Mebbe we can hitch the axle to a tree and pull the bus free."

  "Sounds good. Go check," Ryan said, trying to shove the branch deeper under the left tire. "Everybody else get some more branches. We need to chock every tire firmly."

  "Can't hurt," Mildred agreed.

  Straightening his fedora, J.B. swung the Uzi to his front and stood guard while the others trundled out of the soggy ground and headed into the trees for fresh supplies of wood.

  Slogging around the bus, Dean climbed inside and scraped the soles of his boots clean on the metal step before going to the rear of the wag and rummaging through the stacks of boxes. He found a tremendous amount of smoked food, but little in the way of tools. Could they have missed a stash back at the lagoon?

  "Any luck?" Ryan shouted through the rear door.

  "Nothing yet!" Removing a wicker basket of blankets, the boy uncovered a long narrow crate. Unlike the other containers, this one was tied securely shut. Using his bowie knife, Dean cut the ropes holding it closed and flipped over the hinged top.

  "Hot pipe!" he cried out, lifting a fat tube into view. "Firebirds!"

  "Let me see," J.B. said, opening the rear door.

  Stepping over some boxes, Dean passed him a tube, and the Armorer studied the weapon. Just a simple bamboo tube lacquered with tree resin until it was fireproof, with carved wooden grips so the gunner could hold the weapon steady. Jammed inside was a black-powder rocket with a crude fuse hanging from the side. That was it. Yet the crude weapons had created Kinnison an empire of villes unlike anything in the history of the Deathlands.

  "Love to take this apart and find out how a black-powder rocket can change course to hunt down a target," J.B. muttered, testing its balance and weight. Very nice.