Judas Strike - Deathlands 54

by James Axler

  "Get that scope up here," he barked. "We need to find dry land, and I mean now."

  Quickly, Mildred got out of the way, and the Armorer went to the front of the wag, the Navy longeyes already in his grip. Fully extending the antique, J.B. scanned the landscape ahead of the struggling wag.

  "Don't go to the left. I think that's a lake," he reported. "More mud straight ahead on your twelve, but I see trees to the right. Not sure the bus can drive between the trunks they're so close, but that has to be solid ground."

  "Where?" Ryan asked, adjusting the clutch as the wag backfired again, even louder than before.

  "Mile, mebbe two. On your three."

  "See them."

  "Incoming," Dean said calmly, jacking the slide on his Browning. "We got a stickie on our tail."

  "Don't shoot it," Ryan ordered. "It may be able to reach us because we're moving so slow, but it can't get in. Too well armored."

  The boy nodded and put his blaster to a blasterport and tracked the approach of the humanoid creature. It caught the mired bus easily and began to hit the outside armor plating with its suckered hands, desperately trying to find a way in.

  "Heading for the rear door," Dean announced, the barrel of his Browning semiautomatic pistol never wavering. Just then, the handle jiggled and an inhuman face appeared in the grille-covered panel of the exit.

  "Shitfire. I need that window clear to see behind us," Ryan growled, fighting to alter the course of the vehicle toward the trees. "Ace it."

  The Browning barked once, and a hot brass casing kicked from the side of the blaster and hit the floor to roll away under the rows of seats.

  "He's gone," Dean stated.

  Ryan could only grunt in reply, both of his hands white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel. Ahead, he could see it was a real forest, just what they wanted. But a mob of stickies was forming between the trees and the companions, almost as if they understood what was happening.

  Checking over his LeMat, Doc looked in that same direction and blanched. There was an army coming their way, thirty, maybe forty of the muties.

  "Can we go around them, maybe refuel from inside?" Mildred asked, pulling a box of cartridges from her backpack and stuffing them into a pocket. "Rip up the floorboards or something."

  "That would only make us sink for sure," J.B. grumbled, thumbing rounds into the S&W M-4000 shotgun and laying it aside.

  "Gaia, look at them," Krysty said, staring out the dirty window. "The engine noise must be pulling in every stickie for miles. Mebbe the whole valley."

  "Could live here," Jak said, opening his Colt Python to check the rounds. Satisfied, he closed the cylinder with a gentle pressure so as not to damage the catch. "Wait for prey, like hellflowers and trapdoor spiders."

  "Lord, I hope not," Mildred replied, checking the load in her own weapon. "Because that would mean it works, and they eat regularly."

  Doc began to mutter in that strange singsong manner that meant he was quoting somebody from the past. '"Lieutenant Broadhead, I'm only an engineer. Here to build a bridge,"' the old man whispered hoarsely. '"What do I know about Zulu warriors?'"

  Finally pointed straight for the forest, Ryan scowled as he saw the stickies stop and just stand there, waiting for the bus to come to them. Was it possible that these swamp stickies were smarter than the ones in the Deathlands? They would find out any minute now.

  "Here they come," Ryan said, arms shaking as he controlled the bus.

  As the vehicle sloshed into the mob, the stickies parted and didn't attack as expected, but started to climb onto the wag, as if trying to drag it down by their sheer weight. Worst of all, it was working. The bus slowed even more, the engine temperature drastically rose and the wag sank deeper into the muck. The engine backfired again, then again, from the buildup of back pressure as the tailpipes became blocked by the quicksand.

  To the people inside, the noise sounded exactly like gunshots. The stickies went crazy, hooting loudly and beating the wag with their sucker-covered hands. In a matter of seconds, the bus was coated with them, a busty female hanging off the iron grid covering the front windshield, several walking on the roof, dozens of hands beating on the sheet steel blocking the side windows, making a rumbling noise like thunder. Two muties were tugging on the right-front access door, and several more rode the back bumper, hitting the grid-covered windows and exit door. Then the glass in a window shattered, and arms were thrust into the wag, eagerly searching for prey. But the jagged shards of glass ringing the frame sliced the limbs apart, fingers and suckers raining to the floor, and the stickies fought one another to pull themselves loose, which only worsened the damage.

  But with the glass gone, their calls became even louder. Mixed with the banging on the sheet metal it was deafening, and the companions couldn't talk to one another. As if sensing defeat of some kind, the muties redoubled the attack, smashing a headlight, ripping off the wiper blades and radio antenna, and bits of decorating molding went flying away.

  "They're testing our defenses," J.B. said, swinging the Uzi to point in every direction. The noise and the hooting masked their numbers, making the thirty sound like a hundred.

  "Smart," Doc rumbled, thumbing back the hammer on his piece.

  "Simple animal instinct," Mildred retorted. "Often, baboons do this sort of thing at zoos to tease the tourists."

  Ryan glared hatefully at the stickie clinging to the glass of his tiny ventilation window. Unable to shoot the thing on the windshield, Ryan hit the horn. The startled female dangling from the windshield dropped off and was run over by the wag. But then a furious male leaped upon the windshield to attack the man and was instantly impaled on the array of knives welded to the iron grid. The slick blades piercing every limb, the dying creature pumped out its life onto the dirty glass, effectively blocking Ryan's vision of the trees ahead. The one-eyed warrior knew that a crash was imminent, but there was no way he was going to slow.

  Savagely twisting the wheel back and forth, he sent the bus rocking side to side, the spikes on the tires slashing the legs of the muties running along, the crippled creatures falling, clutching at the damaged limbs. Several tumbled from the roof and landed on their brethren, or fell under the deadly wheels.

  But the smell of their own blood fed the madness of the muties, and the beating on the wag increased until there was a screech of tortured metal, and the sheet steel covering a side window was bent away. Multiple hands and faces moved over the predark glass searching for an opening. Now there was nothing between the humans and the mutants but a pane of safety glass more than a century old.

  "Blades first," Jak growled, a knife in each hand.

  "Indeed," Doc rumbled, holstering the LeMat and pulling the length of Spanish steel from its ebony sheath.

  As the safety glass shattered in a spray of tiny squares, Jak jerked both hands forward. Hooting in pain, two stickies beat at the knives sticking out of their faces and dropped away. Another tried to take their place, and Doc lunged at it, the sword slicing open its throat with surgical precision. Gushing blood, the invader dropped into the crowd. But more took its place, and other sections of sheet metal started bending away under the pressure of the enraged muties.

  Briefly, Dean looked at the case of Firebirds. If he could just get outside, the missiles would fly away and explode in the distance, drawing the mob away. But if he was stupe enough to launch a rocket from inside the bus, the backblast of exhaust would fill the wag and burn them alive. They had enough armament to stop a tank, and it was useless against some mud-covered stickies.

  Ryan could see the trees were close and tried to spot a path or something to use, but blood and flopping limbs of the aced mutie were making that nearly impossible. Once more, he tried for his blaster to blow off its head and get an unobstructed view. But the moment he let go, the bus veered to the side, and he was forced to use both hands to steer.

  By now, the stickies were all over the wag, their suction-cupped fingers playing with the windows and tuggi
ng on the doors. The companions stabbed at anything that came through the broken windows, the interior of the wag getting brighter with the removal of every panel of steel. Krysty tracked the ones on top with her blaster, but withheld firing. She wouldn't waste ammo on a guess.

  "Dumb ass bastard welder, couldn't weld for shit!" J.B. cursed, his hands tight on the grip of the Uzi.

  There was a crash from the rear of the bus, and the back door unexpectedly swung open. A young stickie was halfway through the small window, triumphantly holding the latch. It hooted in victory, and Dean blew it away. Then an adult swung in from the side and tried to climb over the stack of crates. From the far end of the wag, Doc fired the LeMat, the strident discharge of the hogleg seeming even louder in the confines of the bus. The stickie literally flew backward out the open doorway, its head a crushed mess.

  Scrambling through the supplies, Jak reached the door just as another mutie climbed inside. Spinning sideways, the teenager buried his combat boot into the mutie's stomach, driving it outside. Then grabbing the handle, Jak hauled the door shut and forced the locking bolt into place.

  "Too close," he grunted, flinching as a gob of quicksand was flung through the hole to splatter on the wall. Were the muties throwing that to blind the teenager? Just how smart were these things?

  "How the hell can they run through quicksand?" Dean demanded, ducking another gob sailing in through the busted side window.

  "Check the deader on the windshield," Krysty snapped. "It's got webbed feet, like snowshoes."

  Looking at the corpse, Mildred was amazed at the evolution of such a useful appendage.

  Once more the stickies tried for the broken windows, and the companions hacked away at the hairless limbs, fingers and mouthing suckers falling to the floor. Again and again, Doc thrust deeply with his sword, going for throats and bellies. Then a stickie grabbed the blade and wrestled it from his grip with surprising strength. The creature tried to escape with its prize, but Jak grabbed the arm and pinned it to a seat, while Doc tried to force open the stubby fingers to get back his blade. But the stubborn creature refused to relinquish the weapon, so Doc was forced to hack off the fingers with his belt knife to reclaim the sword. Shrieking, the creature tumbled off the bus, cradling its destroyed hand.

  Holding on to the luggage rack, J.B. went to the front of the wag. "Go faster," he urged.

  "Can't. Bastard engine is at the red line now," Ryan shot back. The gauges on the dashboard flashed in warning, and the wag was barely traveling twenty miles per hour. "I push any harder, it'll blow."

  "Then we start shooting," the Armorer said, and sent a burst through the access door. The muties fumbling with the portal were blown off in a shower of glass, blood going everywhere.

  In response, windows smashed on every side, and dozens of arms reached through to grab for the companions. A sucker-covered hand touched Mildred's med kit on a seat and pulled it to a window. The straps caught on the iron grid, and Mildred emptied her blaster outside until the stickie let go and the med kit dropped to the floor. She snatched it away and tossed it onto the luggage rack out of reach.

  But the deadly hands were everywhere, clawing for anything edible. In the rear, a Firebird was hauled away, and the plastic cover of a seat was ripped off, springs and foam padding bursting free from their tight confines. A canteen was taken, then an empty MRE envelope. The mutie attack was mindless, but unrelenting, and the companions raked the windows with blasterfire, hot lead tearing off chunks of the swamp dwellers. Mutie fingers and suckers rolling around loosely with the spent brass made walking tricky on the blood-streaked floor. A stickie got Krysty by the hair, and the woman cried out in agony as the creature tried to pull her along by the living filaments. Doc placed the LeMat on the thing's wrist and blew its hand off. Weakly, Krysty dropped to a seat, violently trembling, then slowly stood and began to fire again without regard for conserving ammo.

  Opening the side vent, Ryan blew the knee off one trying to crawl onto the hood. The mutie fell, thick blood streaking the polished metal. Reaching through the angled vent, Ryan tried to push off the deader on the grid and only managed to cut his arm in the process.

  Crouching, Ryan saw the trees were only yards away, and then he noticed a breach in the woods, a pathway that led into the cool greenery. He didn't give a damn where it went, as long as it was away from this nightmarish hellzone.

  A steady hammering could be heard above the blasterfire. Suddenly, the back door flew open and a stickie climbed into the bus. It tried to crawl over the stacks of supplies and failed, then began tossing the boxes of food and ammo outside to clear a path for the others right behind. Krysty fired twice, winging the creature in the shoulder, then Mildred triggered the shotgun, blowing the mutie to pieces and destroying several of the boxes in the process.

  "Close that door!" she bellowed, racking the slide.

  "Can't. It's gone," Dean replied, firing at a leg that creeped into view on the bumper. There was an answering hoot, and the wounded limb was withdrawn for the moment.

  "What mean, gone?" Jak demanded, thumbing fresh shells into his exhausted weapon. A stickie reached for the teen from behind, and J.B. put a burst from the Uzi into its face.

  "They tore it off!" he replied, dropping a clip to slap in a fresh magazine. "The door's a hundred feet away and sinking."

  "How many more are there?" Mildred asked urgently. "Anybody keeping count of the dead?"

  "Fifteen aced," Jak replied. "About ten more."

  "Mebbe twelve," J.B. added grimly.

  Pursing her lips, the physician used a word that her father the Baptist preacher used to pretend didn't even exist.

  "Can't let them whittle us down," Krysty said, her hair coiled tightly to her head to prevent further grabs. "Okay, we form a firing line, right here." Kneeling on the slaughterhouse floor, the woman pointed her weapon at the rear door. The others joined her in a cluster and waited, panting for breath.

  "On my command," Krysty said sternly.

  A stickie reached into the bus and paused, expecting to be attacked. When nothing happened, it dared to dart inside and paused, staring at the motionless humans. Then hooting loudly, it began to climb over the stacks of crates as more stickies swarmed into the vehicle. As the creatures got past the boxes, they charged up the aisle for the motionless people.

  "Eight," Krysty said, as the muties rushed closer, arms extended. "Nine, ten of them inside!"

  "That's the lot. Chill the fuckers!" J.B. shouted, cutting loose with the Uzi on full-auto, the compact machine pistol chattering on and on as he emptied a full clip into the massed targets.

  Doc and Jak threw thunder from their big-bore handcannons, misshapen heads exploding from every hit. Krysty and Dean maintained a steady discharge into the crowd with their blasters, as J.B. reloaded and rode the Uzi into a tight grouping. Holstering her .38, Mildred stood and used the shotgun, the flechette rounds tearing the muties into screaming hamburger, intestines slithering out of broken bodies, blood washing over the rubber mats in a tide of death.

  Pausing to reload, the companions stared into the swirling mists of acrid gunsmoke, waiting for the next wave of muties. But as the smoke cleared from the winds pouring in through the smashed windows, they saw only twitching bodies piled on the floor and seats. A motion under the seats caught Dean's attention, and, walking over, he knelt in the blood and fired a round into the head of the stickie trying to crawl away. It jerked once, then went still.

  "Two more on the roof," Ryan said, trying to switch on the defroster and drain some heat from the boiling engine.

  "Mine," Jak said, angrily scowling at the ceiling.

  Then the bus violently shook as it hit something under the bog, and started bumping along as if rolling over railroad tracks. Their speed increasing, the front end lifted clear and the vehicle drove out of the quicksand and onto solid ground.

  "We're out!" Ryan announced, slightly easing his hunched position behind the wheel.

  "Thank God,"
Mildred said, slumping into a chair.

  Dodging saplings and rocks, Ryan headed for the path, the off-balance tires shuddering from every irregularity in the ground. Stickies could be heard moving about and hooting loudly on the roof.

  "There's a road!" Krysty said, standing alongside the man, trying to look over the aced mutie. "Jog left!"

  Downshifting, Ryan twisted the steering wheel, and the rough vibrations smoothed. Predark pavement? Ryan hit the gas and the bus rapidly built speed as it raced along the cracked strip of old asphalt. Far behind, a couple of stickies ran out of the quicksand, but were quickly left behind in the dust.

  Muffled footsteps could be heard on the roof, and Jak tracked their progress with his weapon. "Still got them," he growled menacingly.

  "We're far enough away," J.B. said, holding on to the luggage rack to stay erect. "Might as well, slow down and refuel."

  "After we get rid of our uninvited guests," Doc said, shifting the fire selector pin of the handcannon to the shotgun round.

  "Especially this bastard," Ryan complained, bobbing his head to try to see around the bedraggled corpse on the windshield. Blood was still trickling from the multiple knife-blade wounds, and it was becoming impossible to see clearly. The wiper blades were long gone, causalities of the stickie attack.

  "I'll get him," Krysty offered and went to stand by the access door, a slim hand holding on to the chrome-plated pole, as she waited for the wag to stop.

  Just as Ryan started to downshift, he saw the fallen tree lying across the road ahead of them, a massive decaying log that a walking man could easily step over. But for the wag it was an impassable palisade. Chunks of rubble lined the predark road on both sides, giving him nowhere to turn, and with the tree trunk only yards away there was virtually no time to slow. Only one choice then.

  "Roadblock!" he yelled, standing on the brakes and throwing the gears into reverse. "Brace yourselves!"

  Instantly, the wag bucked as if hitting an invisible wall. Every loose item in the vehicle was thrown to the front, a deluge of bodies and boxes burying the companions. A pair of hooting muties flew off the roof and smashed into a tree, the bodies wrapping bonelessly around stout branches.