Gaia's Demise

by James Axler

  Fanning herself, Mildred sported a smile. "That's redundant."

  "Yet still true, madam. Pro veritas Libertas!"

  Rising from his seat, J.B. pulled at the sticky clothes clinging to his body. "I'm going to see what the damage is," he said, getting a tool kit from a storage locker under the seat.

  "I'll cover you," Ryan stated, removing a canteen from the wall. "Krysty, prime the chain gun in case we get visitors. Doc, Dean, start transferring the gas from the external cans to the fuel tank. Mildred, Jak, you two stay right there. That was a hell of a knock you took."

  "N-never better," the teenager whispered weakly from the floor, moving his arm to expose the bloody bandage on his head. His normally pale skin was flushed pink, his shirt damp with sweat. Mildred had given the teen two aspirin for the pain, and checked the focus of his vision. She said it had to do with concussions and brain damage.

  "Glad to hear it," J.B. said, undogging the aft doors. '"Cause you look half-dead."

  "F-fuck you."

  As J.B. exited the wag with Doc and Dean right behind, Ryan exchanged a look with the physician.

  Mildred nodded, waving him on. "Go fix this thing."

  Stepping over the youth, Ryan took an AK-47 from a stack and checked the blaster. There was a full clip in the breech, and he had a good dozen loose rounds in his pants pocket. Climbing out, Ryan walked around the wag checking for any signs of external damage.

  The armor plating was dirty and scratched with blurry streaks from where soft-lead bullets ricocheted off the hull. Blood was splattered everywhere from the blue shirts they had crushed. While Dean stood guard with his Browning in hand, Doc was busy untying the fuel cans from the charred netting. On the ground, a pair of legs jutted from underneath the vehicle and J.B. could be heard muttering curses to the sound of metal hitting metal.

  Resting the stock of the AK-47 on a hip, Ryan knelt in the sand. "How's it look?" he asked.

  "Found a busted axle," J.B. replied, "and we're definitely losing oil and hydraulic fluid. Dark night, this thing is a mess!"

  "What are the chances it'll carry us to the next Shiloh?"

  "Considering what was done to this wag, it's a wonder the thing got us here."

  "Fireblast." Ryan glanced around. They were trapped with a dead wag in the middle of nowhere. Not good. "Can you fix it?"

  "Don't know, but I'll try. Only need four wheels to stay mobile."

  "Good thing we have eight."

  "Seven, but that should be enough."

  "Need anything?" Ryan had great belief in the talents of the Armorer. The man was a master gunsmith, an expert at booby traps and could fix anything made of steel that rolled or floated.

  "Some light would be great."

  From a box strapped to the hull, Ryan retrieved an oil lantern. The reservoir was half-full, more than enough. Igniting the wick with a butane lighter, he trimmed the flame to something manageable and passed the lantern under the APC.

  "Thanks."

  "No prob."

  "My dear Ryan, would you suppose it safe enough for us to chance a campfire?" Doc asked, passing a fuel can to Dean. "I fear we shall be here through the night, and nobody could possibly notice our small column of smoke amid that Dantean conflagration."

  "Nights get cold. Be nice to have hot food," the boy added, hugging the container with both arms. Setting the bottom of the can on his belt buckle to help with the weight, Dean waddled around the wag with his precious cargo.

  Ryan nodded. "Keep it small."

  An explosion sounded from the east, and Ryan spun about, his weapon ready. A fireball rose skyward from the blanket of black clouds masking the wildfire. Then the Deathlands warrior felt his heart race as a small mushroom cloud formed above the cornfield, the sea winds dissolving the eerie sight almost as soon as it formed.

  Backing closer to the wag, Ryan listened to the crackle of static on the radio, waiting to hear voices, but minutes passed in silence. It had to have been some ammo cooking off from the heat. The way that Hummer was bouncing around, the blues could have dropped any number of weapon or grens.

  "Gaia's demise," Krysty said unexpectedly from the turret Ryan stared up at her. She seemed strangely tense and nervous. "What was that you said?"

  "Gaia's demise," she repeated. "The end of the world."

  "Just rising smoke, lover," he said. "Any hot explosion will make a mushroom cloud. Nothing special."

  Staring at the distant fields of fire, Krysty made no reply, her hands poised on the rapid-fire cannon, long hair billowing in the sea breeze.

  "Lend me a hand," Mildred called, climbing from the APC with an arm load of boxes.

  Shouldering his longblaster, Ryan took the top crate and found it full of pots and pans. "The fire is just for warmth," he said gruffly. "We shouldn't stay here longer than necessary."

  "I'm not making dinner," Mildred replied, placing the box on the ground and removing some glass jars. "Going to brew some coffee. Help us stay sharp. Been a long day, and it's not over yet."

  "Sounds good," he said, relenting, feeling his stomach respond to the possibility of eating. Damn, he was a lot hungrier than he wanted to admit.

  "Mebbe we can break open a few of the MRE packs." he added. "Hunting would be pointless. The fire will have scared away any game for miles."

  Mildred lifted a silvery foil envelope into view. "Way ahead of you."

  Taking a seat on a rock, Ryan balanced the AK-47 on his lap and watched as she ripped open a package and spread out its contents, carefully inspecting the smaller envelope of beef stew, another of coffee, sugar, a log of processed cheese, crackers, salt, pepper, chewing gum. The MRE food packs were Meals Ready to Eat, military rations from long before skydark. The Mylar foil was chem proof and airtight. If the packs were stored carefully, the condensed food would last forever. But the tiniest pinhole could turn the chow into deadly poison. They occasionally found a few MRE packs or self-heats in the redoubts, and sometimes they were edible, but more often they weren't. These came from Overton, and the foil was in perfect condition, almost brand-new.

  "Behold, madam," Doc announced, dropping a load of gnarled gray sticks on the ground. "Driftwood a-plenty. Is this enough, or shall you require more?"

  "That's enough," Mildred announced, starting to whittle on a piece of driftwood with her belt knife. She piled the shavings together and carefully lit them with a single match. The flickering flame almost died, then brightened and spread across the dry wood.

  "There we go," she said, adding small sticks to the growing fire. "Just need some water for the pot."

  "I'll go get some," Dean offered, setting down the last fuel container. "The wag is topped off."

  "Fine. Get it from the basin," Mildred directed him, opening a second envelope and pouring the contents into an iron pot. "The water here is fresh, fed by the river, not salt."

  "Be right back," the boy said. Grinning, he grabbed a bucket and dashed around the APC.

  Thrusting his stick into the hard packed sand, Doc squatted on his heels. "Ah, the vigor of youth." He chuckled. "Pity it's wasted on the young."

  As Mildred fed the fire, Ryan watched the growing shadows, maintaining a constant vigil. The moonlight on the water gave a clear field of fire in case somebody approached by boat, or swam toward shore. There was no smell of salt here. This water fed from several inland rivers and flowed to the sea in a sort of natural harbor. The light from the fire had nearly disappeared to the east, the shoreline was empty for more than a mile to the south and dense forest was to the north. It wasn't the best of spots for a camp, but good enough for one night. Nobody could get close without being detected.

  Carrying a brimming bucket, Dean returned to find Doc breaking sticks of driftwood over his knee and adding them a piece at a time to the crackling campfire. Mildred was already stirring a pot of stew, a row of tin mess kits laid out with salt and forks. With his back to the APC, his father stood guard, the AK-47 balanced in his hands.

  "Over here
," Ryan called.

  The boy complied, and his father checked the water with a rad counter. There was only the usual background reading. "Clean enough," he decided. "Better filter it anyway."

  "Okay." Carefully, Dean poured the fluid through a clean piece of cloth and filled a large coffeepot. Placing it next to the fire, Mildred added a handful of crystals and soon the smell of beef stew and coffee spread across the site, the campfire throwing shadows on the aide of the APC as night slowly claimed the smoky Carolina sky.

  "Hey, is that coffee I smell?" J.B. called out, wiggling the toe of a combat boot.

  "Sure is," Ryan answered. "Want some?"

  "Pretty soon," he replied to the tune of metallic pounding. "Is Krysty inside?"

  "Yeah."

  "Ask her to try the main engine."

  "I heard," she replied from above. Climbing down from the turret, the redhead took the driver's seat, turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal as the engine struggled to catch.

  "Nothing," she shouted out the side blaster port. Only a slice of the road was visible through the tiny slit, showing the legs of the Armorer underneath the APC and Ryan standing near an open toolbox.

  There was some more clanging. "Again!"

  With little hope, Krysty turned the key and was astonished when the big Detroit power plant roared into life, gray smoke puffing from the louvered exhaust ports.

  "Damn, I'm good," J.B. said from under the wag.

  Turning off the engine, Krysty waited a few moments, then turned it on again. She did this several times.

  "We have an engine again," Krysty announced. "Runs smooth as silk."

  "Good work," Ryan told J.B., giving the man a hand as he crawled out into view.

  Standing, J.B. placed the lantern aside. "No, not good news. 'Cause engine is all we have." He was inspecting a shiny ring of metal.

  "What's that?" Ryan asked curiously.

  "A bearing cone."

  Ryan moved closer. "Never saw one before."

  "Folks aren't supposed to. These are sealed units and don't come off, or apart."

  "From the Hummer?" Mildred asked.

  "No, it's ours and I found two more on the ground. That was the grinding noise. The bearings are busted." J.B. placed some tools in the kit and closed the box. "We took shrapnel damage from that satchel charge. The minor engine is leaking coolant from a bad crack in the block. I used some parts from the main engine to patch the second, so we have lights and heat. But as for going anywhere, the wag might as well be sunk in concrete. The transmission assembly is in pieces. Don't know how we got this far."

  The man began wiping his greasy hands with a rag soaked in fuel. When most of the black was rubbed off, he walked to the campfire and poured a cup of coffee. "This wag has definitely taken the last train west."

  "You sure?" Mildred asked.

  J.B. sipped the coffee, holding the tin cup in both hands to savor the warmth. "Oh, yeah."

  "Triple red, people!" Ryan commanded, standing and working the bolt on his AK-47. "The blues would be fools not to sweep this area on a recce first chance they get. They catch us standing here chatting, and it's the long sleep."

  The tired expressions of the companions vanished in a heartbeat, and they drew weapons.

  "Dean, prep a LAW rocket," Ryan added brusquely.

  The boy nodded and raced toward the APC.

  Her boots ringing on the metal floor, Krysty walked through the APC and sat in the doorway. Behind her, Jak lay snoring peacefully amid the piles of supplies.

  "Okay, so we walk out of here," Krysty said. "The question is where. Do we continue on to Shiloh, or the closest redoubt?"

  "Front Royal," Dean suggested, climbing into the wag. "We can get another wag there."

  "Doubtful," his father replied.

  "Besides, my young friend, traveling anywhere on foot means we have to leave most of the supplies behind," Doc stated. "A most dangerous proposition. Too many weapons will slow us and get us chilled just as fast as not enough."

  "Maybe we could rig a litter," Mildred suggested.

  "We're not leaving anything behind," Ryan announced. Kneeling by the dying red embers of the campfire, he poured a cup of coffee and drained it in a few gulps.

  "And we're not walking, either," he stated. "J.B., let me see the map."

  Digging in his bag, the Armorer unearthed the folded plastic sheet and passed it over. Carefully spreading the map on the ground near the remains of the fire, Ryan flicked a butane lighter and read by the tiny flame. Aside from blasters, he considered butane lighters the greatest invention of the predark world. A hundred years later and the things still worked.

  "Look at this," he said, jabbing a finger at the map. "We can travel by water. North Carolina is damn near split in half with this river basin. We'll build a raft and row inland. Get us halfway to the next Shiloh, and only about sixty miles south of the redoubt in Kentucky. We can get more supplies and ammo there. Not much, but some."

  "And then what?" Krysty asked.

  He scratched an ear. "Don't know. We can try and buy a wag, or some horses, from a local ville. Got more than enough spare blasters. And even if we don't find anything, the basin will still carry us a week of walking in two days."

  "Upstream," the redhead stated.

  "Flat water," J.B. corrected. "Easy stuff. No rapids or whitewater falls."

  "A raft," Doc said hesitantly, rubbing his chin. "Dubious, sir. Most dubious."

  Brushing back her beaded hair, Mildred looked up from the map. "We can do it. We've built them before."

  "Indeed, we have, madam. But a raft large enough to hold all of the supplies? It would require two, maybe three, really big ones. Chopping down that many trees will take us a week. Maybe more."

  Suddenly, the chain gun roared into life, shattering the night. The companions dived for cover, digging into the beach, their weapons sweeping for targets, as a stuttering stream of 7.62 mm rounds sliced across the landscape and started tearing apart a tree. Bark flew off the trunk, splinters went everywhere, then there was a crack and the oak dropped heavily to the ground. The chain gun stopped, followed by ringing silence.

  The top hatch swung open, and Dean rose into view. "We don't need axes," the boy stated confidently. "We can shoot down all the logs we want."

  As he rose from the damp ground, Ryan's first reaction was fury, until he realized the cold common sense of the matter. "Good work, son. But next time, trim the top first, then cut out the bottom."

  "Sure, Dad!"

  "But the noise!" Mildred complained. "No, wait. Skip that. We need to get the cutting done now, before scouts arrive."

  "Exactly. And it makes no difference if we use all the ammo. Can't haul the chain gun or the cannon along. Both are too heavy."

  Tilting back his fedora, J.B. gave a twisted grin. "That 25 mm cannon will level the forest in a few minutes. We'll have enough logs for an armada of rafts."

  "Even better," Ryan said. "Doc, we have enough rope?"

  "Certainly, and sufficient canvas for tents."

  The tents would cover the supplies on the raft and keep them dry, and would hide exactly what the companions were hauling from observers. Many folks would eagerly risk death for the chance of getting their hands on a working blaster.

  "Sounds good," Ryan decided. "Dean, cut more trees. Keep going till I say stop. Doc, you're on sentry duty with me. Here!"

  Doc caught the AK-47 and checked the longblaster, while Ryan chambered a round into his Steyr SSG-70. "Krysty, stand ready with a LAW. Shoot on sight. Mildred, make lots more coffee and stew."

  "I'll dig a shallow pit to hide the flames."

  "And I'll start removing the tires from the LAV," J.B. said, pouring a fresh cup of coffee while it was still warm. "Attached to the bottom of a raft, they'll triple our buoyancy. Which means that much more ammo and food comes along for the ride."

  "Excellent."

  "One good thing about this," Krysty said, walking closer out of the darkness wi
th the rocket launcher resting on a shoulder.

  "What's that?" Ryan asked. As far as he was concerned, they were standing on the gallows just waiting for the noose.

  "At least we won't be encountering any land mines."

  "Hopefully. Okay, let's move with a purpose, people!" Ryan ordered. "It's a race against the clock now."

  Chapter Five

  Falling…forever falling… Down through infinity he plummeted, the burning stars swirling around and around, comets lancing out to pierce his naked flesh with white-hot heat. Red blood erupted from the ghastly wounds, then froze solid from the horrible cold. Desperately, he tried to draw a breath and scream from the terrible pain, but there was no air, only the incredible cold and endless falling. Hurtling at unimaginable speeds, faster and faster into a void beyond comprehension.

  A meteor raced by, twisted faces trapped in its fiery tail. The faces looked deep into his eyes, and he couldn't turn away. Shame filled his tormented soul as more faces were presented in a hellish pageant. A litany of crimes. Some wept for clemency, others raged in bestial fury, while a few simply stared with the utter emptiness of acceptance. Fire engulfed him, and he entered the faces, shattering the skull bones and plunging into the morass of living brain tissue like a surgeon's scalpel.

  Now he was swimming in blood, rising bubbles filled with nightmarish scenes. Animals stood before him on display, and opened their own chests to spill their beating organs on steel tables under harsh lights. And none of them had hearts, only clocks, bloody clocks ticking softly inside their dying bodies. He ordered them to go away, then pleaded with hot tears flowing down his cheeks, to no avail. The animals died in droves, only to be replaced with men in chains, their knowing eyes damning him for the monster he was.

  Wailing, he clawed at his face to stop the visions, fingernails gouging into his eyes. But his hands were ghostly things, phantasms of ethereal flesh, and there was nothing he could do to stop or even slow the grotesque litany. The clothing of the men melted away, their hairy bodies becoming the supple flesh of beautiful women. Long flowing hair, full breasts, only the best. An endless parade of naked woman whipped and humbled, chained supine on the terrible table as the silver knives removed their skin and flesh. Eyes staring, clocks for hearts! Impossible beings gruffly laughed behind him and placed cold hands on his own bare flesh. Revulsion filled him like acid, and he tried to vomit, but could only convulse, muscles writhing, limbs flailing.