by James Axler
Retrieving the self-heat from under the seat where it had rolled, Jak tucked it safely away into his leather jacket. Ammo they had; food was short. “Release cable and let rot down there,” he suggested, zipping the pocket shut.
“Leave it alone,” J.B. countered harshly, looking up from the cramped engine compartment toward the turret with its two huge blasters. “That way Gaza comes to us, and as he steps into sight we can blow him off the cliff with his own blasters!”
Ryan nodded and started for the turret. “Sounds good.”
But then the big man paused and scowled at a plastic seat bolted to the wall. There were some words scratched deep into the resilient material in big block letters. Stroking the surface with his fingertips, they came back flecked with tiny bits of plastic dust and curls. The writing was brand-new. Anybody sitting in the chair would have wiped it clean with their clothing.
“Mother Gaia,” Krysty whispered, trying to control her pounding heart. “Is that a message for Gaza or for us?” Turning, the woman glanced at the dead blonde lying on the floor and had a flashback to their escape from Rockpoint ville when she had been looking at the keep and felt somebody look right back at her from behind a thick stone wall.
“This was written by her,” Krysty said, staring at the corpse. “The baron’s first wife was a doomie.”
“What hell mean?” Jak drawled, frowning was he read the words again. “‘The seven will become six.’ Bah, heat-crazy dreck.”
“There are seven of us,” Ryan muttered, and oddly felt a shiver ran down his spine as if he had just pronounced the death sentence of somebody present.
“Just some mystic nonsense,” Mildred said in false bravado. “Besides, it doesn’t say die. Maybe one of us leaves. If Doc was to find some to go way back home, that would be good news!”
“Indeed, it would, madam,” Doc said, from the open doorway, his arms crossed and the massive LeMat resting on a shoulder. “But enemies rarely leave messages of gladful tidings for their rivals to discover.”
She scowled. “You think it’s psychological warfare? That’s not really Gaza’s style. He is more of a hammer-breaking-your-bones kind of guy.”
True words, and Doc started to say more, when the sound of a broiling steak came to him riding on the desert wind. Feeling a touch of panic, the old man grew confused for a moment, thinking he was slipping into a delirium again, when the sound returned stronger and louder. No by gadfrey, not meat on a grill, but hard rain on dry ground!
“The acid rain is here!” Doc cried, hurriedly backing into the war wag, nearly tripping on the jamb.
Stretching across the desert, a faintly yellow wall was sweeping toward the APC like a curtain. Rushing to the rear doors, Ryan and J.B. pulled them shut and dogged the locks tight while the rest of the companions closed every blaster port, louvered ob port and hatch. The companions knew from reading some old documents found in the redoubts that the LAV 25 was an NBC-rated vehicle, designed to withstand nuclear, bacteriological and chemical attacks. But that was way back when it was new and fully operational, the seals firm and solid. Nobody had ever expected the bastard machine to still be in service a hundred years later.
Down came the rain in torrents, sounding like small-caliber rounds as it pelted the armored hull of the APC. In only moments, the sharp reek of sulfur was heavy inside the wag, and the companions quickly tied handkerchiefs across their faces.
“Leak!” Dean cursed as a rivulet of yellow water trickled across the corrugated metal floor from under a console.
Unsure of the source, the companions stepped on top of the ammo boxes to stay above the acid. But the stream flowed freely into the open engine compartment, and soon wisps of smoke rose from the organic components of the machinery being dissolved under the chemical onslaught.
Slowly the water level rose inside the compartment and upon reaching the top started to spread along the floor. As it touched the dead woman, the acid started to eat away at her flesh, and the stink of sulfur became mixed with a more foul-reek of copper.
Shifting to the wall seats, the companions watched for any other leaks in the hull when a tremendous explosion shook the APC from prow to stern, and a hell-storm of sand was blasted against the hull, temporarily making more noise than the rain. Only a second later, a whooshing roar passed by overhead, closely followed by another detonation.
“Dark night, that was a missile!” J.B. cursed, clutching his munitions bag. “The Trader must be here and he fucking thinks we’re Gaza!”
“Of course, we’re in his APC!” Dean agreed, keeping a tight grip on a ceiling stanchion near the turret. “Dad, what can we do?”
Quickly, Ryan looked around for the hand comm he had seen earlier and spotted it floating in the acid rain, the plastic already reduced to a thinning goo leaving only a tangle of wires and transistors.
“No choice! Everybody outside!” Ryan ordered. “If they hit us inside this thing, we’re chilled! Only chance we have is out in the open.”
“In rain?” Jak demanded incredulously, stretching his neck forward as if to bring the other man into clearer focus. “Better stay here!”
“With missiles on the way? If we stay, we die. Now move!”
Pulling out the ponchos from their backpacks, the companions draped the plastic sheeting over their bodies and heads, pulling them tight with nylon cords. Some canvas gloves were found in a tool box, not quite enough for everybody, but they all got at least one for their blaster hand, the other stuffed deep inside their clothing for safekeeping.
“Better hope these shower curtains are tough enough,” Mildred said, cinching another layer tight around her head in a crude bonnet. “But I better warn you that if anybody trips or falls face first in the water…”
“We do a mercy killing and shoot them in the back of the head,” Doc rumbled from inside his white plastic cocoon. “Yes, we do understand, madam, and may God help us all.”
Stepping down onto the flooded floor, Ryan braced himself for a rush of pain, but the tough U.S. Army combat boots resisted the pool of acid for the moment. How long they would was another matter entirely.
However, neither Krysty nor Doc wore the military garb, and precious seconds were spent while they lashed the last of the plastic curtains around their leather boots as additional protection. If the group hadn’t taken spare curtains to make tents, they would be in a nuke load of trouble right now, even more so than they already were. He could carry Krysty, but who could have hauled the tall Doc Tanner around to keep him off the lethal ground?
“Everybody ready?” Ryan asked, going to the rear door and grabbing the latch. Just outside, he could hear the rain coming down in sheets now, wave after wave of death from the sky as every bit as deadly as the ancient nukes. “Okay, keep your head down and walk straight ahead! Let’s move!”
As Ryan pushed open the door, the rain came howling in, smacking against the plastic wrappings in fat yellow drops. Suddenly, Ryan understood why the Core had been wrapped in thick bandages from head to foot. Clever bastards.
Using an M-16 to hold the door wide open, Ryan stepped onto the soggy ground, his boots slipping about in the salty mud. Tucking away his blaster, he took Krysty by the hand, and then she did the same to Doc, and so on. Now supporting one another, the companions moved as a single unit across the killing field as another missile streaked by so close overhead their plastic coverings shook from the fiery wash.
Dragging their boots to keep from splashing in the downpour, the companions headed directly for the lee of the closest dune, the slope offering some minor degree of protection from the rain, and the elevated ground giving blessed relief from the deadly puddles. However, every breath was painful from the moisture in the air stinging their flesh and eyes. As they trundled through the rumbling hellstorm, they saw the aced riders of the smashed motorcycles dissolving, the dark matter runoff flowing over the edge of the cliff like ghastly sewage.
Nearing the dune, Ryan bent over to grab something from a por
tion of a bike not yet submerged when another streak of light split the rain and this time there sounded a metallic detonation, the concussion slamming them hard and threatening to tear away their plastic sheets.
Chapter Nineteen
Rushing toward the cliff, Gaza felt a wave of relief when the anchored cable came in sight, but scanning above he couldn’t spot Allison on the cliff above. Where the nuking hell was the feeb slut? What were they supposed to do, climb the fucking hundred feet of greased steel using their hands?
Moments later, Kathleen arrived, panting from the exertion of carrying the heavy flamethrower. Quizzically, she tilted her head at the man and looked up the cliff.
Grabbing the cable, Gaza gave it a hard tug, waited and tugged again using even more strength, but there was no reply. Damn bitch! Doomie or not, he’d whip her for this unpardonable lapse!
Then there came the distant sound of sizzling, and both the man and woman reacted in horror. The desert dwellers knew that only one thing made that noise. But the rainy season was weeks away!
Gaza started to reach for the cable, then lowered his glove and turned. “Back into the ruins!” he ordered. “Now, woman!”
But Kathleen was already started for the nearest building, a windowless ruin partially collapsed, but still several stories tall.
“Forget those!” the baron snapped, pulling her in a new direction. “We could get burned alive if the fires arrive. Back to the convoy!”
Nodding in compliance, the woman followed her husband through the maze of debris and back into the streets. As they headed for the APC, everywhere around them the birds were flying away frantically, seeking refuge inside the shadowy preDark structures. The millipedes were already gone from sight, but the noises from the storm sewers told of fresh fighting in the subterranean depths.
Running directly over the partially consumed deaders on the pavement, Gaza blew away a pair of vultures squabbling over a desiccated infant to clear a path to the park once more.
The area around the ancient mil wags was clear, and Kathleen felt a surge of hope. If the rear doors and top hatch of the APC could be tightly closed, they would be able to safely ride out the storm, and afterward there wouldn’t be any stickies or millipedes left alive in the city. She only hoped that Allison would be okay left alone to face the Trader. But the first wife was extremely smart, and Kathleen had supreme confidence that the elder blonde would survive to rejoin them after the rains had gone.
Yanking open the rear door, Gaza cursed to see a stickie standing inside the wag, only its outline betraying the presence of the tan-colored mutie that perfectly matched the paint job on the inside of the LAV 25. Then the shadows on the walls moved, betraying the presence of more of the muties.
Slamming the door shut on a reaching hand, Gaza shoved his shoulder against the metal and the limb was severed. Strident hooting sounded from inside the wag as the hand dropped to the pavement, its suckers opening and closing like tiny mouths.
Unlimbering the flamethrower, Kathleen ignited the preburner, a tiny blue flame hissing steadily inside the vented main barrel. Then she assumed a stance directly before the doors, and Gaza yanked them open again, taking refuge behind the metal portal.
A roaring lance of flame shot out from the weapon to fill the wag completely, reddish tongues writhing out of the ports and vents. Covered with fire, the creatures inside shrieked and dashed madly about, hitting the walls in their death convulsions.
As Kathleen cut the flow of condensed fuel, Gaza backed away and pushed her toward the imposing bulk of the tank. They had escaped the stickies, but lost the APC in the process. Damn the luck! As he ran, Gaza found his shoulders were tense, braced for the first wet impact of an acid drop.
Reaching the titanic machine, the baron checked underneath but saw no danger. Placing a boot on the treads, Gaza boosted himself onto the huge vehicle, then gave his wife a hand upward. At the rear of the war wag, there was a gap in the armored skirt hanging around the chassis to protect the treads and wheels, almost as if it were specifically there to assist entry. And the treads themselves were odd, each individual piece coated with hard rubber, instead of the bar steel he would have expected. Protection to not damage the civie street? Possible.
Thunder and lightning crashed the turbulent sky as they headed for the turret, and as Gaza walked around the main cannon, a brick-colored stickie charged from the nearby ruins and grabbed the man by a boot, its body rippling to become a matching shiny black. Snarling in revulsion, Gaza tried to jerk free, but the mutie was firmly attached, so he lowered his M-16 and triggered a long stream of hardball ammo into its sexless chest. Wildly, the stickie jerked about from the barrage of rounds, but didn’t let go, and as the clip emptied, it weaved drunkenly, still on its feet and the puckered holes in its features already starting to close.
Squeezing past her husband, Kathleen pressed the vented barrel of flamethrower onto the hand of the thing, the blue flame of the preburner searing the glutinous flesh. Hooting in pain, the stickie released the man and Gaza gave it another burst, driving the mutie backward until it was far enough away. Now Kathleen triggered the pressurized fuel and unleashed a one-second spray into its misshapen face. Its head a ball of fire, the stickie stumbled away, waving both arms helplessly as the norms clambered on top of the turret to look down inside the open hatch of the great machine.
At the bottom of the short ladder, Gaza could see the interior of the tank was well lit, the dull red glow of ancient electric lights making the inside of the wag seem as if it were the belly of some great beast. Dropping the spent clip and reloading, Gaza entered the machine, watching the walls and floors for the slightest indication of movement.
The interior of the tank was like nothing Gaza had ever seen. The walls were painted a soothing white, and controls were everywhere, hanging in clusters, filling curved banks along the ceiling and three walls. The rear wall was a veined blast-door, sealing off the store of shells for the huge 120 mm cannon.
Yet in spite of its huge size, the war wag seemed to be built for only four people, a driver, a loader, a gunner and the boss. Those were the only chairs, with nothing more for sec men or passengers to use in transit.
As Kathleen joined him in the war wag, the blue flame of the preburner brightly lit the interior, and it was clear that they were alone.
“Save the juice,” he ordered gruffly.
Uneasily, Kathleen cut the flame, the metal of the barrel immediately ticking as it started to cool.
Going to the turret, the baron swung down the hatch with a bang so loud it hurt his eardrums. Twisting the lock, he set it tight and dropped to the main floor.
There were no vents or ports in sight anywhere inside the tank, just a lot of thick pipes that he deduced were actually periscopes, six for the commander in the turret, and three for the driver, two for the gunner and nothing for the seat of the loader near the blast-proof door. Fair enough. His job was to move shells, not look outside and enjoy the view.
Sighing gratefully, Kathleen unbuckled the chest harness and slid the heavy fuel tanks off her back and placed them carefully on the rough metal floor. The surface wasn’t corrugated like that in an APC, more like sand, and it gave a good footing.
Just then a patter of splats hit the hull of the tank, the noise softened by the dense triple armor. Then the rain arrived full force, sheets crashing over the machine, but even the mighty thunder was baffled down to a mere murmur.
Nervously, Gaza and Kathleen watched the floor and walls for any sign of a leak, but the interior of the war wag stayed dry, and there wasn’t the slightest trace of the rotten-egg stink of the deadly rain. Then Gaza frowned as he realized that even the smell of the preburner fuel was gone. There had to be some sort of automatic venting.
Sitting in the commander’s chair, Gaza ran his hands across the shiny console, thinking of what he could do with only one such machine and wishing with all of his might that the tank was still operational.
“Power,” he
whispered softly, thinking of the empire he could build with just one such machine.
“Order received,” the flat voice said from nowhere. “Switching from standby status to primary power.”
His chest pounding in fear, Gaza tried to breathe as the interior lights slowly grew in strength until giving a smooth white light. Then the baron laughed in delight. The nuking thing was still functioning, with some sort of preDark comp running the controls. Blind norad be praised, this was the find of a lifetime!
“Please, identify,” a flat voice rumbled.
Fuck that, Gaza snorted angrily, he took orders from nobody, especially machines. “No, you identify!” he snapped. “And be quick about it!”
A blinding fan of thin green light came out of the console and played across the baron, stopping at the cluster of decorations pinned to the shirt taken from the deader in the first APC at the head of the convoy.
“Working,” the voice intoned. “Acknowledged. Ident confirmed, Lieutenant Colonel Anderson. What are your orders, sir?”
Trying to hide his excitement, Gaza glanced at the colorful collection of rainbow-colored plastic squares in three neat rows. He had taken the stuff just because it looked pretty. But they had to have been symbols of some sort, the deader in the APC a chief sec man in his day. Now this dumb-ass machine thought Gaza was the long-gone person simply because of the clothing? Excellent.
“We’re in the middle of a nuking chem storm,” the baron started, then cursed himself for a feeb. He had to speak old talk.
“Correction,” he said slowly. “There is an…NBC storm outside. Seal the fuc…seal every vent and make sure none of that dreck…poison gets inside.”
There was a short pause.
“Acknowledged,” the voice said, and suddenly from every direction there sounded slams and hisses. A moment later, clean-smelling dry air started blowing from the vents set under the control boards.
Approaching her husband, Kathleen tugged on his sleeve and made a gesture at the roof, urging him to leave. With a snarl, Gaza shoved her away and she fell to the floor. Tears on her face, the scared woman begged him to leave, but he just swiveled the chair away to face the winking array of controls spanning the incredibly complex instrument board.