by James Axler
Gaza couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and Kathleen edged closer to the man for protection. Camou stickies. They had heard rumors from outlanders about such things but never really believed them until this moment.
As the stickies attacked, the sec hunter droid slashed out with its buzz saw and scissors at the same time, striking in the opposite direction. The closest two stickies died horribly, and the gore-splattered machine retreated again toward the convoy in the park. Sitting on the crumpled hood of a crashed car, a millipede hissed at the droid as it passed and was slashed apart by the flashing blades. Then more stickies attacked, slowing the machine by the sheer bulk of the bodies. One mutie got a good grip on a red lens and tried to pull it free, and the droid threw itself against a nearby truck, crushing the stickie’s head. As the dead mutie released its hold on the droid, it fell to the street, its skin rippling in different colors and textures, the suckers moving like gasping mouths, until the humanoid went still and the skin become a dull pasty white like a drowned man long deceased.
Longblaster in hand, Gaza sneered at the sight. Mu-ties always seemed irresistibly attracted to machinery, fires, diesel engines and the like, but this time the machines were fighting back and chilling them in droves. The armored chrome of the droid was dripping with blood, feathers, pincers and a few suckers adhering to its blades as grisly trophies of combat.
Making a guttural sound deep in her throat, Kathleen bumped him with a hip, urging the man to leave. Gaza agreed and eased around the APC, trying to keep its bulk between them and the approaching droid. Oddly, it didn’t seem to be after the norms in particular. Mebbe it was merely returning to the tank where it had first been seen, like a guard on patrol. Suddenly, the baron had a strong urge to see what was inside the preDark war machine that needed such a high level of protection. Nukes? Nerve gas? But the danger of the droid was too great to risk a recce, and he followed his wife away from the imposing hulk of the huge preDark juggernaut, its titanic cannon resting against its armored prow and pointing uselessly at the ground. Or could it be the tank itself that needed guarding?
Dimly the man recalled a memory from childhood when a similar machine had been found in the ruins of West Virginia. The local baron had called it a Ranger, and claimed it was a thinking war wag, as if a droid and an APC had been combined. The very idea of obtaining such a weapon made the baron slow his departure until shied onward by the urgings of Kathleen.
Careful not to trip over the corpses on the pavement, the man and woman crossed the intersection keeping low behind the lines of cars and trying to stay out of direct line of sight of the droid. But then the tentacles of the unseen thing in the sewer made another grab for their boots and got Kathleen around the ankle. As she swung her AK-47 down to blast it away, Gaza knocked the weapon aside and slashed with a knife. The flesh was spongy and severed easily. Gushing piss-yellow blood, the amputated tentacle slithered away, as an inhuman mewling and gurgling issued from the dark sewers. The baron had no idea what kind of a mutie was under the city, but was resolved not to be taken alive by the thing. There was something unclean about it that disturbed the man.
Keeping a finger on the trigger of his M-16, Gaza watched the sewer grating for any further movements as Kathleen got off the street by stepping through the smashed window of a store. He was right behind her, covering the rear.
Inside the building, the two glanced about at a line of chairs standing before a long mirror, the walls covered with pictures of people with strangely cut hair. What the place could have been the baron had no idea whatsoever.
Only yards away, the fight in the street was growing; more and more millipedes were arriving to feast upon the dead and the dying. And apparently summoned by the death cries of their own kind, more of the camou stickies were dropping off the sides of buildings to land on top of the droid. Its blades tore them apart, but there were always a few suckers left behind on its hull, and the chrome ran thick with the mutie blood.
Shambling past the open window, a brick-colored stickie on the sidewalk turned to stare at the two norms, then lunged for them. Trapped, Kathleen fired a burst into its face, the impacts driving the mutie back against a car at the curb. But even as they watched, the bullet wounds in its chest began to close and the stickie started taking on the metallic sheen of the sleek preDark vehicle.
Seemingly bemused by the combat, the corpse behind the steering wheel was sporting tinted sunglasses and a white silk scarf draped around a shriveled brown throat.
As Kathleen fired again, Gaza lit another flare and shoved it into the stickie’s left eye. Hooting in pain, the creature stumbled away, sucker-covered hands swatting at the flaming stick sizzling inside its distorted face.
Unfortunately, it had been too little, too late. The droid had heard the blaster shots and was heading their way fast, the millipedes and other stickies ignored at the appearance of the armed humans.
“Aim for the eyes!” Gaza cried, slinging his M-16 over a shoulder and drawing his knife once more.
As Kathleen hammered the oncoming machine with the hardball ammo of her AK-47, Gaza used a knife to cut the strap off her shoulder and free the LAW. Pulling out the pin, he extended the tube to its full length. The sights popped up on the front and the firing button was uncovered.
“Watch the wash!” he warned, assuming a launching stance. Still shooting, Kathleen moved as far away from the man as she could.
Flame vomited out of the aft end of the launch tube, filling the hair salon with a strident volcano that blew everything loose across the store with hurricane force. Almost faster than they could follow, the antitank rocket streaked away from the front of the tube on a contrail of smoke and sparks, the propellant obviously weakened over the long years. It started straight for the droid, then unexpectedly veered slightly and went straight past the machine to slam into the side of a millinery shop. An explosion shook the entire building and it collapsed, a tidal wave of bricks and cinder blocks cascading outward to bury the droid. For several long moments, the man and woman waited, watching for any indication that the droid was still operational. But nothing stirred under the tonnage of assorted debris, and soon they lowered their weapons.
“Let’s move,” Gaza growled, “before another one of the damn things arrive.”
Kathleen nodded her agreement, and the two slipped out the rear door of the shop, running down a smoky alley to reach the street once more and head back toward the cable at the cliff.
PUSHING THE THIRD motorcycle to lean against the side of the APC, Allison suddenly could feel the cold, clammy hand of death squeeze her heart, and the doomie knew that death was in the immediate vicinity. Her own or somebody else’s, she wasn’t sure, as the woman had never been able to read her own future and help guide it along.
Which was why she had joined with Gaza. He was ruthless and powerful, an excellent stud in bed, and she could foresee things for him that would only bring wealth and pleasure to herself. All of the other wives had been chosen with extreme care so that they would never be rivals for his affection, such as it was. Any slut who might replace her was killed on sight.
Folding her arms, she closed both eyes and tried to open herself to the whispers of the universe. Almost immediately, the doomie felt her mind swirl with the bizarre visions of some different place, perhaps a different world. The chaos seemed to last forever, and when the vision finally cleared Allison stumbled inside the war wag and took a knife to scratch a message into one of the hard plastic seats. The doomie wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, or when the deeds would take place—this day or a hundred seasons from today. But she felt it would be soon, and was absolutely certain that this message would be her revenge, the only way Allison had of striking back at her killers after buying the farm.
Shaking off the disturbing mental images, the woman closed the rear doors of the LAV 25 and climbed into the turret, trying to find her husband in the madness below. Death came to everybody sooner or later, but the doomie had no intention of
greeting the blackness with open arms. Allison planned on fighting for every second of life, every gasp of breath.
Chapter Eighteen
The companions ran along the salty desert, watching the streamers of smoke come over the top of the sand dunes when the bandaged figures rose from the sand directly in their path.
Ryan froze at the sight, his Steyr sweeping from one member of the Core to the next. His first impulse had been to chill them on sight, but none of them was carrying those weird spears like before.
“Krysty?” J.B. asked nervously, expertly cradling the Uzi machine pistol.
“They’re not sending any mindkillers, if that’s what you mean,” the redhead replied slowly, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “At least, I don’t think so. Can’t really tell for sure.”
As if stirred by those words, the mysterious beings now all pointed in unison to the left.
“What about the city?” Ryan demanded, stepping toward them. “Something there you want?”
Lowering their hands, the Core gave no reply, then turned away and descended into the loose sand to once more vanish from sight.
Scowling deeply, Doc glanced at the sand dune hiding whatever was on their left. “It’s a trap,” he declared. “It has to be. Enemies do not become friends without a reason.”
“Gaza might be that reason,” Ryan said thoughtfully. “This could be a simple matter of we’re the enemy of their enemy.”
“Mebbe want us chill Gaza,” Jak said as a suggestion. “Then ace us, could be.”
Shifting her grip on her Czech ZKR pistol, Mildred curled a lip at that idea. “Could be,” she agreed. “Or maybe they’re sending us somewhere safe from the coming storm.”
She knew that the others weren’t overly concerned about acid rain. They had been caught in many downpours before and were still alive. Plus, they each had plastic ponchos made from the shower curtains taken from the last redoubt they looted. The military material was very thick, and should protect them somewhat from ravages of the chem storm. Puddles were the real danger, finding themselves trapped in ever deepening pools of the sulfuric acid rain until it rose above their boots and started to irritate their legs.
With Ryan in the lead, the companions proceeded another twenty yards west before going around a dune. Jak could have been right about this being a trap. Besides, it never was a good idea to blindly follow the directions of anybody.
Staying low, Ryan paused as a trail of what seemed to be blood stretched from the desert toward the cliff. Following it from a distance, the one-eyed man brought up his longblaster with a jerk at the sight of a corpse, its arms and legs blown off from some sort of explosion to the chest. J.B. prepared a pipe bomb and Jak got a Molotov ready while Ryan attached his pocket mirror to the end of the Steyr and took a recce around the slope of the dune. Now he could see more bodies scattered about, mixed with the remains of smashed motorcycles, along with a few unexploded land mines. Possibly duds, but there was no way of telling from this range. And parked in the middle of the destruction was a tan-colored LAV 25 with three motorcycles leaning against the armored chassis.
“Hell of a fight,” J.B. stated. “Outriders from the Trader?”
“Then why the nuke hasn’t Gaza left yet?” Ryan queried, angling the mirror to try to find any other vehicles. But the war wag was alone with the deaders and the broken machines. The only oddity was that the winch had a cable going over the edge of the cliff and down into the city below. Gaza was looting the ruins while the Trader came charging down his throat? That made no bastard sense at all.
“Unless it’s busted,” Ryan said aloud, finishing the thought. “Guess the Core really was helping us.”
“No way the baron would leave the wag unprotected even if it was crippled,” Krysty said slowly, straining to hear the sound of an engine, but the vehicle was deathly quiet. “Which means it’s either boobied or has a guard.”
Thumbing back the hammer on his LeMat, Doc rumbled, “Probably a guard, dear lady, to operate the cable and haul his worthless hide back up with whatever he deemed was of such protean value.”
“Three bikes in sight,” Mildred added, doing the same to her ZKR target revolver. “I would guess Gaza went down with a guard, and left the third person here to cover his escape.”
“Makes sense,” Dean agreed, craning his neck to try to see the top of the transport. “Hot pipe, the hatch is closed! There goes using a Molotov.”
“No, a Molotov is just what we need,” Ryan said, trying to keep the tension from his voice as lightning flashed overhead, the thunder following only seconds behind. The storm was coming closer. They had to do it right the first time. There might not be a second.
Wrapping the strap of the Steyr around his forearm to help steady the longblaster, Ryan leveled the weapon and placed his eye to the scope. “Jak, hit the front of the wag with a Molotov,” he directed. “Then J.B., put a burst across the rear doors. The rest of you play dead.”
“Not prob,” the albino teenager said, lighting the rag tied around the neck of the glass bottle. “Tell when.”
“On my mark,” Ryan said calmly, placing the crosshairs a foot above the top of the turret. “Now.”
Whipping his arm forward, the miscellaneous bits of metal and glass sewn into Jak’s camou jacket jingled from the abrupt motion as the firebomb arced high and crashed directly on the nose of the APC. Instantly, J.B. stitched a short burst along the rear doors of the wag, the 9 mm rounds ricocheting harmlessly off the military armor.
A split second later, the top hatch flew open and a hand came out to grab the .50-cal and blindly fire the weapon in every direction. On cue, Krysty, Mildred and Dean screamed in pain from behind the dune as if mortally wounded.
At the sounds, a blond woman rose into sight from the hatch and grabbed the firing grip of the big-bore 25 mm cannon just as Ryan stroked the trigger of the Steyr. The rifle bucked once and a single 7.62 mm round smacked directly into her left temple, the right side of her head spraying out in a pink froth.
Even as she fell limp across the blaster, her convulsing hands triggered the cannon and a spray of 25 mm shells hit the ground in front of the companions, the cacophony of detonations throwing out a tempest of debris before coming to an abrupt stop.
While the salt and sand were still in the air, the companions raced across the open ground low and fast and hit the rear doors of the APC, pressing their bodies flat to the steel and ramming the barrels of their blasters through the louvered slats of the air vents.
“Surrender, or we shoot!” Ryan ordered loudly. “This is your only chance!”
But aside from the crackling flames of the Molotov, only silence answered the challenge. Which was a damn good thing, since the man had no intention of shooting into the APC. It could easily be packed full with fuel or ammo, and a single round might have obliterated the wag, along with the companions and the entire section of cliff they were standing on.
After a few more moments, Ryan motioned to Dean, and the boy removed a self-heat from his backpack and gently lobbed it up and into the open top hatch of the vehicle.
“Gren!” the boy called as it bounced off the corpse and dropped down inside.
But there was still no reaction from anyone inside. J.B. got busy tricking the door locks from the outside. As the bolt was disengaged, the door swung open and the companions got clear in case of outgoing rounds. But the interior of the APC was empty aside from the deader dangling from the turret.
Doc and Dean stayed at the doors as rear guards while the others climbed inside and did a quick recce for a boobie, but the wag was clean.
“Bunch folks were here, mostly women,” Jak said, opening a handmade backpack and pulling out loose white gowns. “Not gaudy slut, either.”
Krysty squinted at the clean clothing and the abundance of weapons lying openly in the boxes on the metal floor. “Gaza had five wives, right?”
“Four now,” Ryan said, pulling the corpse down from the hatch. Her clothing mat
ched that from the packs, and the handcannon tucked into the holster of her gun belt was clean, oiled and carrying six rounds.
“Baron’s wife, all right,” he stated.
Finding an Ingram machine pistol hanging on the wall, Dean yanked out the clip to make sure it was carrying the same 9 mm ammo he used in the Browning Hi-Power, then tucked the clip into a pocket to be emptied later.
“Found the engine,” J.B. announced, kneeling to try to see into the darkness. “Millie, hit the lights, would you?”
Going to the control panel in the front, Mildred dodged the waves of heat coming off the dwindling fire on the armored prow outside and flipped a few switches to activate the emergency lights.
Now the war wag was brightly illuminated, and the companions were astonished by the display of armament lying about. Belted ammo for the fifty and the 25 mm, four LAW launchers, one in questionable condition and even a hand comm, which was strange since the radio transponder in the dashboard was no longer present, along with the radar and most other of the preDark equipment.
“Lightening the load to save fuel,” Krysty muttered. “Idiot.”
“What’s wrong with the wag?” Ryan asked, joining his friend at the hole in the floor.
Tilting back his fedora, J.B. looked up from the exposed engine. “Primary ignition wire harness is gone,” he stated. “Somebody ripped it out hard. Repairs have been tried and failed.”
“Sounds internecine to me,” Doc rumbled softly from the rear of the wag.
Checking over an AK-47 assault rifle, Mildred gave the silver-haired scholar a stern look, but said nothing in reply. The crazy old coot was right. This did seem like some sort of a rebellion in the ranks.
“I’d say Gaza is in the city,” Ryan announced in sudden understanding. “He’s down there trying to get parts to fix this wag.”
“A bold move,” Doc said in grudging respect. “What else this baron may be, he is no coward.”
“That’s just self-preservation,” Mildred replied, slinging the Kalashnikov across her back. “Got nothing to do with bravery.”