Moonfeast

by James Axler

  Clicking on the flashlight, Mildred got a strong white beam that she swept along the edge of the crater, marveling at the razor-sharp smoothness of the edge. There was no need to measure the diameter. The spherical emptiness would be exactly thirty feet wide, just large enough to completely take out a front-line tank or sink a medium-size battleship.

  “Seen bigger,” Jak drawled, but it was clearly just youthful bravado.

  Snorting, Mildred played the light into the crater and ruefully saw that there was no bottom. The implo gren had breached the side of another lava tube. Sluggish yellow fumes flowed along the passageway, and there was a dull reddish glow coming from somewhere below. Waves of heat radiated upward, carrying along a pungent smell of sulfur, and something else, something flat and metallic.

  “Molten iron,” J.B. stated with a scowl.

  “Which means lava,” Ryan translated grimly. “We must have come awful close to triggering an eruption. Or, at least, a breakthrough.”

  “Come again?” Jak asked, confused. Born and raised in the swamps of Louisiana, he had never even imagined such a thing as a volcano until encountering one in the South Sea Islands.

  “What would happen if you stabbed a knife into the side of a whistling teakettle?” Krysty asked, glancing sideways at the teen.

  Pursing his lips in thought, Jak started to answer then paused as he got the image, and then deeply frowned. “Best leave fast,” he stated.

  “I agree, my dear Jak,” Doc rumbled. “Our best hope is a swift departure.”

  “Yeah, and go where?” J.B. asked, adjusting his fedora. He wasn’t a fan of tightly enclosed spaces. The darkness of the lava tube was starting to get on his nerves and he was determined not to let it show.

  “We’re breathing air,” Ryan stated, brushing back his hair. “Which means there must be some sort of a break to the outside world. All we have to do is find it before the juice runs out.”

  “Which doesn’t give us very long,” Krysty countered quietly. “Doc and I emptied every last drop of juice into the gas tank, almost fifty gallons, and it barely even registers on the fuel gauge in the pilothouse. That means the tanks must be huge, and the only reason for that has to be—”

  “It gets drek lousy mileage,” Ryan finished. “Okay, we leave behind everything we can—spare tires, radio, radar, rip out the bastard floorboards! Only take the essentials. Less weight means we can go farther and faster.”

  “Although, I would strongly suggest that we maintain a watertight hull,” Doc added. “By their very nature, most volcanoes are located near water, and it would behoove us to keep the ability to float.”

  “Fair enough,” Ryan relented when a blistering wave of heat rose from the crater, the searing temperature driving the companions back to the cool safety of the U.S. Navy LARC.

  “I think the lava may be rising,” Mildred said in a strange voice, both of her hands tight on the strap of the med kit.

  “Then let’s move with a purpose, people!” Ryan commanded, hastily climbing back on board the LARC.

  Since she was familiar with the controls, Krysty took the wheel once more and started the wag along the tube, deeply thankful that J.B. had fixed the headlights with some duct tape. Now they pointed relatively straight ahead, which made driving a massively easier job.

  Joining the woman in the pilothouse, Ryan got busy ripping out the advanced electronics. There was a lot of it, some of the devices completely unknown to the man, which puzzled him for a moment, before he remembered that although the LARC had been invented for the First Nuke War, which the old-timers called World War II, the amphibian transport had still been in use up to the end of the twentieth century. Ryan guessed there were some things that simply couldn’t be improved, like the revolver, hardback book, can opener, pocket comb or the common hammer. Mildred called it the fork level of engineering. You could paint a fork different colors, but it was impossible to improve on the basic design. The one exception to that rule would be a nuke, which was easily upgraded by smashing it flat with an anvil until it could no longer detonate, thus improving the bastard thing a million fragging percent.

  In the rear of the lumbering transport, the rest of the companions started tossing everything they could, beginning with the empty gas canisters, a toolbox, a fire extinguisher and then closely followed by long, heavy chain that ended with an anchor.

  Locating a brace of spare tires, J.B. got to work on the lug nuts. As each one came loose, he tossed it cavalierly over the side, closely followed by both tires and then the hydraulic jack.

  Encountering a crack in the wall of the lava tube, Krysty slowed the wag to look for any signs of access to the surface, but Ryan urge her onward. His rad counter was registering near the danger levels, clearly indicating that the passageway had been made by a nuke explosion, possibly during skydark itself.

  Finding a fire ax, Jak got busy chopping free the excess seats, and disposed of a squat electric winch. It took three of the companions to get it over the side, and the machine crashed to the ground shattering the lava and releasing a small geyser of steam. That disturbing sight made the companions redouble their efforts. Soon the LARC was stripped to the gunwale and moving noticeably faster.

  In short order, the pungent reek of sulfur and hot iron was left behind, and the companions clung to the cushioned gunwales, straining to see into the darkness up ahead, hoping for a glimmer of daylight.

  Reaching an intersection of several tubes, Krysty slowed the wag to a crawl, listening for any sound of the surf or perhaps the call of a gull. But there was nothing, only the powerful hum of the big diesel, echoing slightly in the rocky passageway.

  “Look, there on the wall!” Ryan stated, thrusting out a hand. “Those are chisel marks!”

  “Somebody was down here, probably looking for a sulfur deposit to make black powder,” J.B. said in obvious relief. “Well, if they got in, then we can get out!”

  “Only one way to be sure,” Krysty said, shifting gears to back the LARC down the tube a little ways before angling into the side opening.

  This tunnel was a lot smaller than the main lava tube, and the rubber bumpers alongside the LARC began to rub along both of the walls. In only minutes they were worn away, and now the bare metal gunwale started to scrape across the congealed lava, throwing off sprays of bright sparks. The noise canceled out any attempt at conversation. J.B. wisely moved away from the sides of the amphibian transport and threw his leather jacket over the munitions bag for some extra protection.

  Rubbing a hand across the inside of the windshield, Ryan scowled into the gloom ahead, unsure if he had just seen something. Dragging out a handkerchief, he spit onto the rag and tried rubbing the glass clean, but it was simply covered with too many scratches for his crude ablutions to have any real effect.

  “Spot something, lover?” Krysty asked, downshifting the gears to try to keep the wag moving. If the walls got any tighter, that would become impossible and the companions would find themselves on foot.

  “Not sure,” he replied, tucking away the damp rag and drawing the SIG-Sauer. Flipping the blaster, he grabbed it by the barrel and swung the handle forward. The glass shattered and fell away, offering him an unobstructed view.

  “Ace the lights,” Ryan ordered, holstering the weapon.

  Turning off the headlights, Krysty then killed the running lights. Now a soft glow could be seen in the distance, the dim light almost too weak to spot even in the near pitch blackness.

  “Trouble?” J.B. shouted from the rear.

  “Tell you in a second,” Ryan replied, brushing the hair away from his good eye.

  Slowly the dull illumination got brighter, until another branch in the tunnel was discernable. The right passageway was a Stygian maw, impenetrable and absolute. But the left was definitely lighter, almost a cottony gray.

  “Wait a moment, is that…yes, it is. I can hear surf!” Krysty said excitedly, throwing the LARC into gear once more.

  “Careful of a cliff,” R
yan warned, reaching out to flip on the headlights. The blue-white beams lanced forward to reveal a hanging curtain of flowery vines just a heartbeat before the LARC plowed through and into bright sunshine.

  Instantly, Krysty cursed and slammed on the brakes, savagely turning the wheel as the LARC raced straight for a huge lake of mud, the thick sludge bubbling and steaming.

  Banking hard, Krysty nearly tipped over the wag, but the other companions threw themselves in the opposite direction and she managed to skirt along the irregular shoreline, finally coming to a ragged stop only a few inches from a flaming river of molten red rock. The heat from the lava hit them like a physical assault, stealing the breath from their tortured lungs, and the aluminum prow of the LARC began to visibly melt.

  Throwing the transmission into reverse, Krysty quickly rolled away from the lava river until reaching the relative safety of the boiling lake, and the oppressive temperature eased to a more tolerable level.

  “Fireblast, that was close,” Ryan muttered, patting the woman on the damp shoulder while glancing around.

  The Deathlands warrior had assumed that the wag would come out of the lava tube on a cliff, possibly overlooking a sea. But the LARC was parked on a sort of plateau that jutted from the side of a tall mountain, or rather a range of mountains that stretched for miles. Several of the peaks were masked by thick clouds of fiery smoke, rivers of glowing red lava meandering down the sides. One flow had burned a path of destruction through a lush jungle, the plants withered on either side for hundreds of feet, while another thickly pumped into an ocean, the resulting nonstop explosion of lava mixing with the water creating a huge cloud of steam that blocked any further view.

  Surrounding the Navy wag were countless small steam vents, hissing and bubbling like a self-heat ready to pop. Off to their left was the mud lake and straight ahead was the river of lava, the thick molten rock sluggishly flowing over a cliff to rain down into a river valley.

  “Behold, the wrath of Vulcan,” Doc stated, shrugging off his frock coat to fold it over an arm. “Unless we have perished in our Quixotic sojourn, and this is the demonic abode of Beelzebub!”

  “Either way, it’s hotter than hell,” Mildred agreed, opening the front of her shirt. The heat was incredible, almost palpable, and she was already dripping sweat.

  Peevishly, Doc arched an eyebrow. “That is what I just said, madam.”

  “Frag, how leave?” Jak demanded, slipping off his jacket. It clanked as the teen laid it on the floor.

  “Over here!” J.B. shouted, pointing behind the wag.

  Situated between the mud lake and the crumbling granite side of the volcano was a narrow bed of cooled lava, the rough black surface extending down the side of the mountain to another plateau alive with greenery. The abundant plant life continued onward to become a thick jungle, the trees alive with birds and tiny monkeys. In the far distance was a shimmering blue lake that looked deliciously cool and inviting.

  “That’ll do,” Ryan stated, never happier in his life to see something that was not boiling or molten. The Great Salt was hotter than a frying pan, but this combination of heat and humidity was sapping his strength. He labored to draw in every breath, and his clothes were already soaked completely through with sweat.

  “Agreed,” Krysty panted, shrugging off her backpack, then dropping her bearskin coat to the floor. That helped a lot, but not enough, so the woman undid the buttons of her shirt to let it hang loose. Her sports bra was nearly transparent with sweat, her taut stomach glistening with tiny droplets, but she felt a whole lot cooler anyway.

  Removing the cap, Ryan passed her the canteen and she took a long drink, then poured the rest over her head. If they made it to the lake there would be water to spare. If not, the fall would ace them, not dehydration.

  “Here we go!” Krysty announced, passing back the empty canteen. She nodded her thanks, then shifted the wag into reverse. There was nowhere near enough room to turn, so she would have to do the maneuver backward.

  Inching along, the LARC eased onto the bed of cooled lava to start crawling down the jagged slope, the tires bouncing and jerking as the sharp lava spires shattered under the weight. The mil tires blew in the first few yards, but quickly sealed themselves, and Krysty continued onward. But each crushed spire now began to emit an endless snaking tendril of dull yellow smoke.

  Chapter Seven

  Stopping at a branching tunnel, Baron Jones scowled at the river of dark smoke flowing past. In so many ways, the heavy smoke acted like water, obediently following the tunnels and the grooves in the rock. The rush resembled a solid wall until a person looked closer and saw that it was actually speeding smoke. Deep inside there was a thin red line of lava flowing from one part of the rumbling mountain to another. Like blood in a body.

  Mebbe the wrinklies were right, the baron thought, heading down the middle passageway. The Earth was alive in some sort of strange way.

  Exiting the tunnel, the baron looked over the small plateau before whistling sharply. Seconds later his wife appeared from the darkness, along with a dozen of the sec men.

  “Digger is taking the dust back to Sealton ville,” Lady Veronica stated. “I wanted a shot at Carlton for myself.”

  “After me, my love,” the baron returned, studying the western slope of Cesium Mountain. There were numerous steppes and plateaus in sight, most of them empty as a stickie’s pockets. A few were masked completely in steam, while others… The baron blinked to clear his sight. There was some sort of machine moving along an old lava flow that connected two plateaus.

  “That’s a war wag!” Lady Veronica growled in open hatred. Her hair almost seemed to move at the words, but the ebony filaments merely fluttered in the humid breeze.

  “That one-eyed bastard must be Carlton!” a sec man growled, raising a longblaster and working the arming bolt to chamber a round. “A pound of dust says I can put one into his good eye!”

  “A splendid idea, Eccels,” the baron stated, resting a hand on the barrel. “But the rest of us are too far away for our blasters to be of any use. Can you ace all six people in that wag with your five brass?”

  “Three,” the tall sec man sullenly admitted, lowering the weapon. “But I can get him, sire.”

  “We want them all, plus their wag,” the lady said softly, unable to take her sight off the redhead driving the vehicle.

  There was a strange tingling in her mind, very similar to the feelings Veronica used to get from her mother and sister, may Gaia greet them both to paradise. Then the redheaded woman looked up sharply and Veronica emptied her mind, thinking very hard about nothing, absolutely nothing. After a moment the redhead went back to her driving, the long wag jouncing and bouncing along the rough lava road.

  Working the arming bolt on her stubby MP-5 rapidfire, Lady Veronica allowed herself a small smile of contempt. It would seem that Carlton had found himself a witch somewhere, just not a very good one. Now she wanted the redhead aced even more than before.

  “All right, we’re gonna do this fast and silent,” the baron said, opening the breech of his M-203 gren launcher and sliding in a 40 mm brass. Located under the fluted barrel of the M-16 rapidfire, the big gren launcher closed with a satisfying clunk. It was the only gren he had for the massive blaster, but it would be well worth the cost if he saw it blow Carlton off the mountain in a dozen small pieces.

  “Hart, Billington, stay with my wife! Perriweather, Barker, head for the escarpment! Everybody else with me,” the baron commanded. “Now, iron up! It’s chilling time!”

  As the sec men grimly rallied, the nearby Cesium Mountain gave a low and powerful rumble as if somehow anticipating the bloody slaughter to come.

  THE VEHICLE CLATTERING and clanking off the irregular lava flow, Krysty gratefully parked in the middle of a smooth patch of grass growing on the small plateau.

  Releasing the bent steering wheel, she then turned off the engine to save fuel and flexed her stinging hands. Fighting the ancient wag down the lava ro
ad had been like wrestling a kraken. Her whole body ached from the strain of trying to control the rattling wag. Even her temples were throbbing, almost as if somebody had tried to touch her mind with their thoughts. It had been an unnerving feeling, and her animated red hair curled and flexed unhappily.

  “That was fun,” Ryan said in a rare display of humor, tugging on his teeth to make sure they were still firmly attached.

  Snorting in reply, Krysty dug an elbow into his ribs.

  It was much cooler down here, away from the steam vents and mud lake, and the companions spent a few minutes just savoring the wonderful sensation of not sweating like a holiday pig being shown the final apple.

  Ahead of the wag, or rather behind, since they were backward, was another lava flow, a lot more rough than the short stretch they had just traversed. Hardly a tempting avenue. However, off to the side was a much smoother dirt trail that led into a field of boulders, but those hid anything beyond.

  “Not much choice,” Jak stated gruffly, using a strip of cloth to tie back his sodden hair.

  “Six apples or a dozen oranges, eh, Doc?” J.B. asked, drying the moisture off his glasses with a hand kerchief.

  Opening his mouth to correct the garbled expression, the old man paused and merely smiled. “Just so, my friend,” he blatantly lied for the sake of camaraderie. “Just so!”

  “Everybody remember to lick your arms,” Mildred said, doing just that as an example. “I don’t have any sodium tablets, and we have to maintain our salt level in this heat.”

  Leaning in close, J.B. whispered a suggestion to the woman about another possible source of sodium, and she fiercely blushed. Tactfully, everybody else turned away and pretended not to notice.

  Stepping out of the tiny pilothouse, Ryan pulled out an antique Navy telescope and extended the device to its full yard length. When closed, it was about the size of a soup can, and the single lens was perfect for a one-eyed man. Ryan had found the amazing device in an antique store in the ruins of a nameless metropolis they called Zero City. He had almost lost his son in that accursed place, and suddenly Ryan felt the absence of the boy as if he had just been standing alongside the man only a second ago. He seldom spoke of Dean, but the boy was often in his thoughts.