Gaia's Demise

by James Axler

  "Well, there's a redoubt to the south of here," J.B. said, reading the map. The firelight glistened off his glasses, casting tiny rainbows across his face. "But it's over 150 miles away."

  He turned the map over. "Now, just sixty miles to the north is the town of Shiloh, of which we know nothing. But to the northwest is Shiloh battlefield. There's a redoubt there, and it's only a hundred miles away."

  "Two birds, one stone," Krysty said sagely. "I vote for simplicity."

  "Ville near redoubt had horses," Jak reminded them. He stood and stretched his arms, working a kink from his neck. It had been a long time since he did this much riding, and surprisingly, it was his back that was sore, not his ass.

  "That ville also had lots of folks who wanted us chilled," J.B. reminded the teenager.

  Jak drew his blaster and checked the load in the cylinder. "Don't care. You decide. I relieve Doc horses." As silent as a jungle panther, the pale teenager slipped into the darkness and was gone.

  "Anything useful in the Shiloh redoubt?" Dean asked, assembling his weapon without looking. Springs tucked into place neatly, and the carriage entered the oiled frame without hindrance.

  Watching the work with approval, Ryan shook his head. "The base was stripped bare. Although, there are miles upon miles of tunnels under the redoubt, and we never did more than a fast recce into those. Could be anything stored down there."

  Finished, the boy eased the clip into place and jacked the slide. "Mebbe that's where Overton was getting his blasters from, the Shiloh redoubt."

  "Could be," Ryan said thoughtfully. "It just could damn well be the spot."

  The talk went on far into the night, and soon the decision was made. They would bypass all of the towns named Shiloh on their list and head straight for the Civil War battlefield of Shiloh Church.

  THE CAMPFIRE WAS dwindling to red embers, the unburned ends of logs glowing in the darkness. Soft snoring came from the still figures under the blankets around the fire pit, along with the occasional mumbled word.

  Blaster resting on his lap, J.B. sat sipping cold coffee and listening to the night. The insects and birds told more of what was happening in the area than vision could. An owl hooted its eternal question, something with wings soared overhead and a line of ants marched over his combat boot seeking the crumbs from their dinner.

  The thin grass rustled as a dry breeze blew over the campsite. Then there was another rustle, but the breeze had ceased.

  With instincts honed in a hundred battles, J.B. stood and threw a bundle of branches onto the embers. The oil-soaked wood burst into flames, filling the area with bright light that revealed a dozen figures near the horses, fumbling with the reins.

  "Thieves!" J.B. bellowed, firing single shots from the Uzi, unwilling to go full-auto and possibly kill the horses. One murky figure cried out, grabbing a shoulder. Another doubled over, clutching his stomach, and toppled to the ground.

  The companions clawed for their weapons and rolled away from the campfire as the invaders seemed to stab themselves in the faces with tiny sticks. Dodging left and right, J.B. fired twice more, then something gentle hit his chest. He glanced down and saw a tiny barbed quill jutting from a button.

  "Blowpipes!" he cried, plucking the deadly barb from his clothing, trying not to touch the glistening end. It had to be poison of some kind.

  A thundering roar illuminated the night as Doc triggered the LeMat. Three more of the shapeless figures holding blowpipes cried out in pain and fell aside, throwing their arms wide. A roar shook the darkness as Mildred fired the S&W shotgun, then the gunshots overlapped one another as the companions unleashed a hell-storm of lead and copper at the intruders. Many of the figures dropped to the ground, but the ones behind them leaped on the horses and galloped away, vanishing into the night.

  "They got the horses!" Krysty cried, kneeling in the cold soil, two hands supporting her S&W .38. She strained to catch a glimpse of the thieves, but even her vision couldn't find a target in the blackness.

  "More wood!" Dean shouted, and dropped a load onto the campfire.

  The circle of light expanded, and something went motionless in the tall weeds nearby. Springing forward, Mildred grappled with a man who broke free from her clutches and started running. Jak threw a knife and the figure stumbled, then Ryan tackled the intruder, driving him to the ground.

  Wrestling in the thrashing weeds, the man escaped again and Jak slashed for the neck. The blade missed the target, but scored a deep furrow across a leaf-covered shoulder. Pivoting, the intruder snarled wordlessly, lashing out with hands full of vines. The thorns raked Jak's face, just missing his eyes. The teenager thrust a knife into the man's belly as Ryan clubbed the thief over the head with the SIG-Sauer. With a crunch of bones, the man fell to the ground.

  "Over here!" Krysty shouted, an oil lantern held high.

  In the yellowish light of the fish-oil lantern, the humanoid on the ground gasped for breath.

  "Mutie," Jak growled, wiping his blade on the dirt. He usually cleaned the knives on the clothes of the dead, but this time that wouldn't work, as the horse thief was naked. Sort of. The humanoid creature was covered with vines, but he wasn't wearing them; the plants were part of him, the roots buried deep into his skin. His clothing was merely leaves of different colors mimicking cloth.

  The mutie spasmed once, then went still. The leaves limply drooped, the vines turning brown.

  "Symbionts," Mildred said, inspecting the still form. In death, it simply looked like a man partially covered with ivy. Then she noticed the thorns on the hands. Experimentally, she closed a limp hand into a fist, and barbed thorns extended from the knuckles. Releasing the hybrid, she stood. "Plants and man intermixed. They can't live without each other."

  "Bastard good disguise," Ryan grunted in annoyance. His shirt was slashed, but the skin underneath only lightly scratched, with no bleeding. "Triple-blasted stuff probably alters to any style, so they can pretend to be part of your group in the darkness."

  "Certainly easy enough to tell in the light," Doc agreed. "But by then it is probably too late for most norms."

  "We killed six," J.B. announced, the Uzi held steady. "But there were at least twenty more from the tracks. It actually looked like some acted as shields, dying so the rest could get the horses."

  "Gaia," Krysty muttered. "They sure wanted the animals badly."

  Breathlessly, Dean burst through the weeds. "They took everything," he panted, "horses, tack, reins, all of it. Nothing's left."

  "Fireblast," Ryan said, removing the half clip from the SIG-Sauer and slamming in a full magazine. "I don't care if it's a bastard army of the things out there. We're going after those horses. Without them, we're on foot. J.B., gather what supplies we have and divide them into six packs. Mildred, bank the fire so it'll last through the night. Nice and big. Understand?"

  "Make them think we're still here. Gotcha."

  "Jak, you're our best tracker. Find their trail and don't lose it! We'll follow soon, so leave a trail for us." The pale teenager nodded and blended into the weeds.

  REACHING THE BOTTOM of the hill, the companions easily found the tracks of the horses and followed them to a large pile of rubble. Ryan whistled once, and Jak stepped out of the shadows under a rock slab.

  "Went into ruins," Jak said. "Couldn't follow. Rads."

  "Thought so," Ryan muttered. Piles of rubble rose over their heads, the monolithic buildings soaring even higher. He checked the rad counter on his lapel. The readings were nominal.

  "The area is clear," he announced. "Let's go."

  Staying low, the companions moved through the weeds and over the predark wreckage, following the faint trail of the green muties. A hoofprint in the soft sand, a broken weed, a tiny pool still rippling, a crushed leaf bending back into shape, a drop of blood on a rock. Jak moved almost without pause, the nebulous marks a wide highway for the Cajun hunter. Ryan and Krysty stayed with him most of the way, but sometimes they were forced to wait until he resurfac
ed a dozen yards away, waving them onward.

  Under the colored moonlight, the companions crept past a tall office building that rose like a knife thrust from the mounds of broken masonry. The front door was covered completely, but third-floor windows were missing where the rubble was piled high, and they knew others had been inside. Whether greenies or norms, it was impossible to tell.

  Walking out of the crumbling suburbs, Ryan and the others found Jak crouched, studying a broken parking lot of macadam. Ahead, the downtown monoliths stood silent and foreboding. Nothing stirred the scrawny weeds; not a breath of air moved over the desert city.

  "There." Jak finally pointed, then headed to the left.

  A long squat building stood amid an array of houses crushed flat, a sprinkling of sand dusting the ruins. The metal frame of a garage sagged nearby, the beams consumed with rust and age. The building itself was made of brick, granite slabs set as lintels around the doors and windows. The roof was sharply sloped with no skylights or ventilation grilles offering a possible entrance. A bare flagpole leaned away from the building, large stone eagles flanking either side of the recessed doorway. Words were carved into the granite lintel, partially dissolved by acid rains.

  "National Guard armory," Ryan whispered. "Is that the spot?"

  "They there," Jak said, nodding, peeking between the fins of a corroded car radiator. "Nasty."

  "Yeah, this isn't some library or bank converted into a fortress," J.B. countered. "It's a military fort, built to store weapons and troops."

  "Blasters and ammo by the ton," Dean said eagerly, then frowned. "No, those must be long gone."

  Kneeling on the shell of a transmission, Krysty agreed. "Can't chance a rush. That door is a death trap," she added softly, scrutinizing the building. "One man with a rapid fire could hold off a score of invaders."

  "Not sure if the greenies have blasters, but we're not going to use the door anyway," Ryan stated. "I know another way inside."

  "The fort was designed to hold off rioting mobs," Mildred said, shifting her hold on the med kit. "How are we going to get in?"

  "Mobs are stupe," Ryan replied, his Steyr cradled in his arms. "Only people are clever. Stay close. No noise, five-yard spread."

  Slow and silent, they moved around the building with weapons at the ready. In the backyard, the sand was winning over the weeds, the sideways chassis of a large truck gradually returning to the earth from which it was once mined. Empty oil drums used to store fuel were scattered about amid broken pallets, miscellaneous metal parts of unknown origin and stacks of rotting tires.

  The rear of the armory was a solid wall of brick and granite, the slit windows covered with bars and located some fifty feet off the ground near the gutter of the sloped roof.

  On the loading dock, massive steel doors stood in a row, blocking any possible entrance that way, and off to the side, a short set of stairs led to a smaller door of riveted steel.

  In a two-on-two combat formation with Ryan on the point, the companions proceeded along the cracked concrete to the loading dock as if moving through a minefield. As he reached the top, a dark shape on the floor smelled familiar, and Ryan touched the soft material. Warm horse shit. Jak had been right. This was the place.

  "How did you know?" asked Krysty, pressing her mouth to his ear.

  "Front door too small for horses," Ryan whispered tersely. "Greenies had to get the horses inside somehow."

  At the loading doors, Ryan raised a hand palm outward and the others froze. Inspecting the tracks, he found grease on one and tentatively identified it as animal fat.

  The glass in the view slot of the door was gone, replaced with wood paneling. Drawing the SIG-Sauer, he aimed the barrel at the wood and gave a horse whinny. Something moved inside and he emptied the clip, the soft coughs of the silenced blaster counterpointed with snapping noises as the slugs plowed through the paneling. Immediately, the companions pushed up the door and found two greenies lying on the floor, their vines already withering.

  Lowering the door, Doc and Dean dragged the bodies into a corner while J.B. stood guard with the Uzi. Straight ahead was an empty area with faint stripes painted on the terrazzo floor, the warehouse for the armory. Across the room was a door marked Washroom, and a hallway. Keeping to the walls, the companions crossed the storage room in groups, each covering the other in case of traps or snipers. But no one had witnessed their intrusion.

  Holstering the SIG-Sauer, Ryan removed the long-blaster from his shoulder and gently worked the bolt, the click-clack sounding unnaturally loud in the gloomy stillness. When no one challenged them, Ryan held up two separated fingers, then pointed to the left and the right. Understanding the signals, the companions split into two groups to avoid offering a group target.

  The quiet of the armory was unnerving. The thick walls kept out the soft desert breeze, and not even the drip of water marred the near perfect silence. Gaping doorways lined the corridor, opening onto dusty offices, a looted storage closet and private bedrooms for officers.

  The end of the hallway was a branching intersection with more doors. Two proved to be locked, and by the cobwebs on the hinges it was safe to say neither had been used in years. However, a set of double doors had clean hinges, dripping with fat. Easing their way through, the companions realized this was the barracks for the troops. The rows of bunks were coated with dust and cobwebs, but a clear path led through the barracks to a group of figures sitting in a circle, nosily eating.

  Moonlight streamed through the right side windows, illuminating the bizarre scene. A horse lay in the middle of the muties, its hide peeled back to allow them easy access to the pale meat and organs. The leafy muties were removing morsels with their bare hands and stuffing the food into their mouths, gobbling and slavering in joyous repast.

  Doc made a gagging noise and leveled the LeMat.

  "Chill them!" Ryan shouted, triggering the Steyr, the 7.62 mm round blowing the head off a feasting greenie.

  Dumbfounded, the muties could only stare in shock as the humans steadily advanced, firing their weapons. Mouths smeared with blood, the greenies fell to the floor, riddled with bullets, but two of them managed to grab blowpipes and stand before receiving fatal head wounds.

  Moving among the dead, J.B. checked the corpses just to make sure, and Ryan turned away, holstering his blaster. "Okay, let's find the rest of the horses."

  Quickly, the companions went through the armory, opening every door, exploring every room. But they found only decay and refuse, gnawed bones and junk. Within a quarter hour, they regrouped in the barracks.

  "Hey, over here!" Dean called from the armory. "Found them!"

  The companions converged on the corridor to find Dean standing near an open doorway. The hinges had been ripped from the jamb, the door itself resting against the wall. A strong smell of blood and feces emanated from inside. The boy's face revealed barely controlled anger.

  Lighting more candles, the companions proceeded carefully inside the room. In the flickering glow, they saw the rest of the horses lying on the floor, muffled cries coming their bound mouths.

  "The monsters!" Mildred said, furious. "The greenies cut the leg tendons so the horses couldn't run away."

  "Damn," Jak said grimly. "No fix that."

  Krysty drew her blaster. "Nobody can fix that kind of wound. These horses are cripples. They'll never walk again."

  "Stinking bastards," J.B. spit, leveling his Uzi. The Armorer fired single shots, putting the crippled animals out of their misery.

  "Done," he said finally, slamming a fresh magazine home. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  "Gladly, sir," Doc rumbled, wiping some splashed blood off his cheek.

  Holding a candle high, Ryan inspected some shelves. Aside from empty shoe boxes and wire coat hangers, there was nothing. "Damn. Find any of our packs anywhere while you were searching?" he asked.

  Making sure the horses were dead, Mildred stood. "Not a thing. Just garbage and cobwebs."

  "Gr
eat. No horses, no food, only the ammo in our pockets," Krysty growled. "Mebbe we should just head for the nearest redoubt and jump out of here. We're not going to take the blues with what we have."

  "Mebbe," Ryan said, walking toward the door. In the corridor, he turned, a new expression on his face. "Jak, in the parking lot you took a while to decide coming here. Why?"

  "Odd tracks," the teenager replied. "Horses here, greenies elsewhere. We want horses. Came here."

  "But they obviously took the saddles and backpacks someplace else."

  He shrugged. "Looks like."

  "Which means there are possibly a lot more of them," Doc stated, then gestured grandly at the armory. "This degenerate abattoir is merely their kitchen, for lack of a better word."

  "We find their nest, we find our packs," Dean concluded. "The ruins aren't very big. It'll only take us a few hours to recce."

  "Agreed," Ryan said, working the bolt on his long-blaster. "Let's go get those supplies back."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hidden in the shadows, a greenie watched the norms below from behind the sheet of mirrored glass in the tall building. He made fists, and the knuckle-thorns slid in and out as he debated attacking them now or waiting until they met the master and were helpless.

  The choice was clear, and the symbiote left the room to gather more of his leafy brethren. Soon, oh, so very soon, the feasting would begin.

  RETURNING OUTSIDE, Jak found the trail in the parking lot and started toward the ruins with the companions close behind. The moon was descending toward a bank of clouds, signaling the end of night. Soon, Ryan and the others would be visible.

  The square foundations of homes and stores lined the streets in an orderly procession, most of the holes filled with debris, sand and weeds. Rubble was everywhere underfoot, along with bits of rusting machinery and a dusting of sand. In another hundred years, the desert would claim the predark city, eventually swallowing the monoliths under windblown drifts. Already the windows facing windward were frosted white from the constant bombardment of the hard particles.