Moonfeast

by James Axler

  “A herbivore no more, madam!” Doc shouted from the second-floor window of the barn.

  “It needs the calories to fuel that regeneration!” Mildred yelled back. “Nothing is free!”

  Loading in a fresh rotary clip, Ryan almost smiled at that. So, the big beast needed to constantly eat to fix its wounds? If the companions could trap it in a pit, the thing would soon starve to death. That was potentially useful, but no method came to mind on how to lure the behemoth into a pit, even if the companions had one available.

  However, there were pits, and then there were pits, Ryan noted sagely, a plan forming in the back of his mind. It was triple crazy, and more dangerous than asking a cannie for a kiss, but unless they wanted this thing chasing after them all the way to the mainland, they had to chill it, here and now. This would be the last attempt. Next they would have to use an implo gren, which would mean the companions could never go back to the redoubt full of supplies. Two implo grens and three Cerberus clouds equaled six aced companions.

  Checking the clip in his blaster, Ryan started back for the gaudy house. It was time to make a move and see what happened.

  Chapter Twelve

  Going back inside the tavern, Ryan checked the bottles behind the counter, then the stock in the root cellar. As expected, the best shine was reserved for the baron, and Ryan took every bottle, along with a handful of rags.

  Searching among the bedrooms of the gaudy sluts, Ryan found a ladder to the roof and hauled up the collection of rags and bottles.

  Using hand gestures, the man explained the plan to his companions, then started tossing over the bottles of shine, rags tied firmly around the necks.

  The only mishap occurred when Doc dropped a bottle. It shattered on the street, and the rhino stopped eating its ghoulish meal for a moment, looking around intently with its piggy eyes, before continuing with the horrid gorging.

  When everything was ready, Jak climbed off the roof and crept along the ville wall to reach the open gates. The albino teen had to dig in his heels, and his face went purple from the exertion, but he finally got the slab of metal moving and managed to close the inner door and lock it firmly.

  As Jak returned to the roof of the barracks, Doc exited the barn, crawling along the ground to reach the corral. Using his sword stick, the man cut away the bundle of ropes holding the wooden rails in place, then gently eased them down and crawled back into hiding. It took a few minutes for the terrified horses to comprehend that freedom was suddenly available, and they bolted out of the corral, racing toward the gate, only to find it closed. Then they began running around the assorted buildings in a desperate search for another avenue of escape.

  “Now!” Ryan shouted, throwing an unlit bottle.

  In rough unison, the companions rained the glass containers along the wooden fence of the corral, the shine soaking deep into the dry wood. Glancing up from feasting, the rhino grunted at the odd noise, but didn’t stop stuffing the rotting flesh into its mouth. The hunger urge couldn’t be denied until thoroughly sated. The genetically designed military weapon was a slave to the iron demands of its own body.

  Making a bundle of his last four sticks of TNT with some duct tape, J.B. twisted the fuses together and lit them with his butane lighter. As the twine began to sizzle, he swung the charge overhead, slowly building speed, then released the bundle as the fuses separated and started toward the separate sticks.

  Sailing across the street, the bomb landed alongside the grunting rhino, and it turned at the noise exactly as the explosives detonated.

  The thundering fireball lifted the creature off the ground for a dozen yards, sending it tumbling and turning to land with a resounding crash. Stunned for a moment, the rhino struggled to rise on its shattered legs, yellow blood trickling from its mouth and rear.

  Now the rest of the companions lit the rags around their bottles and threw down the makeshift Molotovs, setting the entire corral on fire and forming a wall of flame between the rhino and the half-eaten carcass.

  Bellowing in rage and pain, the regenerating beast lumbered weakly forward, but the heat of the blaze forced it back, only to have the organic programming embedded into its artificial brain command it forward once more. Pain meant nothing, it could and would regenerate, once it got that carcass!

  But as it neared the flames again, the companions appeared from the smoke, shooting from every direction. Roaring in unbridled fury, the rhino started to attack, but then turned back toward the burning food. Fuel came first. That was a primary order.

  Getting ready to throw his last pipe bomb, J.B. proffered it to Mildred, who rammed it up the gullet of a dead chicken, then tossed it into the corral to land smack in the middle of the rotting corpse.

  Everybody took cover and a few seconds later a blast rocked the corral, chunks of decaying horse smacking wetly into the barracks and the huts.

  Struggling through the firewall, the smoldering rhino stiffened at the sight of nothing on the other side but a smoking crater. Tricked!

  On the far side of the corral, Ryan whistled sharply and the beast turned to limp in that direction. Stepping dangerously close to the flames, Doc triggered both of his handblasters, the heavy rounds slamming into the blackening hide of the cooking rhino, leaving gaping holes. A steady flow of yellow blood ran from a dozen wounds, the movements of the rhino noticeably slowing. As it staggered closer to Ryan, he raced away, and Krysty whistled shrilly from the opposite side.

  Lumbering awkwardly, the rhino threw itself after the female two-legs, but it only got halfway there before Mildred and Jak returned from the baron’s home, their arms full of shine and bottles of fish oil lanterns.

  The crude fire bombs pelted the beast, its screams taking on a pronounced tone of anguish, but still it fought on against its tormentors. Bullets hammered its face, until both eyes shattered, releasing a thick vicious fluid from inside the head that oddly resembled boiling rice pudding. More bottles of shine and fish oil crashed onto the ground underneath the creature, and soon it was engulfed in flames, top and bottom, hot lead smacking it from every side, the pain reaching intolerable levels.

  Switching to an unexpected tactic, the rhino crawled to the feeding trough and thrust its fiery head in after the grain.

  Muttering something in Latin, Doc stepped in quickly and thrust his sword deep into an empty eye socket, then savagely twisted the blade. The entire five-ton body of the rhino shook violently, then the jaw limply dropped and a torrent of yellow blood gushed out, on and on, as if there was an unlimited supply.

  Jerking his sword free, Doc distastefully backed away from the tidal wave of inhuman gore, then drew the LeMat and triggered a single round, the .44 miniball bursting open the charred head, the bubbling brains spilling onto the dirty ground like congealed vomit.

  Rising on stiff legs, the rhino shook all over, then dropped, assuming a splayed position that no living creature could ever duplicate.

  “Keep the fire going,” Ryan commanded, tossing an armload of wood onto the body. “I don’t want any part of this thing left intact to come after us again!”

  Holstering their weapons, the rest of the companions went in search of anything that could burn, and soon they had a bonfire blazing in the corral, the flames licking high into the sky. In only a few hours the rhino was reduced to piles of charred flesh and smoking bones. The smell was beyond description.

  Finally satisfied that the mutie was aced for good, the companions wearily started rounding up the horses, then went to search the gaudy house and upper floor of the barracks for anything edible that the beast might have missed the last time it was here.

  However, the companions found very little intact that was of any possible use. In the cellar of the barracks, Doc unearthed a clay pot full of salted vegetables, while Ryan discovered a hidden cache of live brass under the bed of the madam of the gaudy house. None of the shells fit the blasters of the companions, but brass could save your ass in more ways than one. There was nothing better as paymen
t.

  Searching among the huts, Mildred located the home of the ville healer. But going inside she was severely disappointed. There were plenty of knives for surgery, but also lots of rope for tying down a patient and leather straps to keep them from screaming. If the healer had any knowledge whatsoever of antiseptics, or even basic cleanliness, there was no visible evidence. A shelf of jars in the back room looked promising, but they contained only sulfur, salt and dirt. The first two were for dusting wounds, and she could guess that the third was for packing into shallow cuts to turn them into mildly pleasing scars.

  “Anything useful?” Krysty asked, tucking a bar of homemade soap into her pocket. The stuff was very soft and smelled like a rose.

  “Nothing, unless I was looking for a nifty new recipe for dysentery,” Mildred replied in annoyance. “Is that soap any good?”

  “Yes. Want some?”

  “Always!”

  Gathering at the home of the baron, the companions made sure the windows and doors were locked tightly against any intruders, then settled in for the night and some much needed dinner. Dinner was southern fried chicken, one of Mildred’s specialties, the coating made from stale bread crushed into crumbs, then mixed with salt and pepper from the MRE food packs.

  Sitting around a table, the companions had the unique experience of eating off plates, using knives and forks. The room was lit by candlelight, and there was a roaring blaze in the fireplace to help cut the smell of the cremated mutie outside. The stink seemed to stick to their clothing and hair, and everybody had been forced to wash several times to finally cut the reek down to a tolerable level. Now the women smelled like roses, while the men had taken this opportunity to shave. It was the most civilized meal the companions had enjoyed in several years.

  “Excellent meal, Millie.” J.B. sighed, laying aside his empty plate. There was nothing left of the chickens but gravy and bones.

  “Good, but needed garlic,” Jak added, removing the napkin from around his neck.

  “You think everything could use garlic.” Mildred laughed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table.

  “Can,” the albino teen stated with a wink, strolling off to start his shift of guard duty.

  The ville walls were tall and strong, with both of the metal gates closed and locked, but unless they were inside a thoroughly recced redoubt, the companions always prepared to be attacked in the night. The predark concept of paranoia simply didn’t exist in a world where every hand was turned against you.

  “I shall go check on the horses,” Doc said, pushing back his chair. “The throne room downstairs is secure and warm, but it is a new environment for them, and the horses will need a soothing voice to help them sleep.” Tucking the ebony sword stick into his gunbelt, the man smiled. “Besides which, it has been a long time since I last enjoyed an equine encounter that did not end quite badly for them and me using a toothpick.”

  “Horses are okay, but I prefer wags,” Ryan said, extending his arms in a long stretch. His boots were off and his gunbelt hung from the back of his chair, which was just about as relaxed as the man ever got.

  “But my dear Ryan, unlike horses, I have yet to meet the gasoline engine that could make another,” Doc declared. “Indeed, sir, horses are the hallmark of true civilization! Furthermore—”

  “At ease, Doc!” Ryan said, giving a rare half smile. “Go tend the bastard horses.”

  “By your command, my baron,” Doc rumbled in a mock apology, bowing slightly.

  Scowling at the hated term, Ryan threw a chicken bone at the man, but it missed the hastily retreating Doc and he made it into the kitchen unscathed.

  “Was his time really that different from this?” J.B. asked, watching the scholar snag a basket of nectarines before starting down the back stairs.

  “John, even their wars had rules of decorum,” Mildred stated truthfully, unfolding a stick of sugarless gum from an MRE pack. “A different time? Hell, it was a different world—as was mine.”

  Just then, Krysty returned from her stint of standing guard on the roof, and the group settled in for the night, doing some routine maintenance on their assorted weaponry, and mending a few rips in their clothing, before trundling off to bed. Tomorrow promised to be a long day.

  Banking the fire to keep the room warm, the companions went to their separate rooms and bolted themselves inside, sliding tables under the handles in case of a nightcreep.

  Thumping a clenched fist on the door to make sure it was good and secure, Ryan turned to get hit in the face with a piece of cloth. It was a sports bra, and the man looked up in time to see Krysty step out of her pants.

  “Coming to bed soon, lover?” she asked softly, folding her garments neatly over the back of a chair.

  In the flickering candlelight, her skin seemed to glow like molten gold, her long red hair moving down her back to sway tantalizing across the tops of her shapely buttocks. Then Krysty turned slightly to smile invitingly in a form of communication created by men and women long before words were invented.

  Starting to remove his own clothing, Ryan drank in her amazing beauty, his heart quickening at the sight of her dulcet form silhouetted by the tallow candles. This room carried no trace of the outside world, the air was clean and smelled of roses. Suddenly the man was very glad he had washed thoroughly after the fight in the corral.

  Sitting on the bed, Krysty stretched out a leg, running her toes across a wolfskin rug on the brick floor. It tickled a little, and she tried not to laugh.

  “Something funny?” Ryan asked, laying aside his shirt. The naked man walked toward her, the hard muscles moving beneath his tanned skin like oiled machinery.

  “Tell you later,” Krysty purred deep in her throat, running a hand along his hairy chest. Ryan carried the story of his life burned into his flesh, his skin covered with countless scars, bullet holes, laser burns and knife cuts.

  Krysty knew he was a ruthless killer when it was needed, and yet Ryan only wanted to find someplace where they could live in peace. His calloused hands had taken hundreds of lives, but Ryan looked at her with surprising gentleness, demanding nothing, only asking, giving her the power to decide. That filled her with emotions for which there were no words. She took his powerful hands and kissed them, her hair reaching down to caress his fingers.

  His heart beating fast, Ryan leaned in to kiss the woman, their lips touching gently at first, savoring the sweet moment, trying to maintain the intimacy. But then their passions grew and their mouths opened, tongues intertwining, tasting, probing, exploring. Gently raking her nails down his sides, Krysty moved in from his thighs and cupped his manhood, thrilling at the pulsating sensation of him growing larger and harder.

  Still deeply kissing the woman, Ryan stroked his fingertips along her cheek and down her throat to finally cup a shapely breast. The nipple instantly hardened at his touch. Krysty was more than beautiful, she was beauty itself, as vital to the man as the air in his lungs or the blood in his veins. She was his life, and he told her that silently, in every way he knew how.

  Low murmurs of love and devotion came from the locked room, then the sounds of lovemaking and hurried breathing. And for a brief span of time, the couple found comfort and peace, deep in the heart of the savage Deathlands.

  WHAT REMAINED of U.S. Navy radar station #4 stood on the far end of a small peninsula attached to the main island of Clemente. The concrete structure was old and potted with countless small holes created by the acidic droppings of the seagulls. But the thick walls had been breached, and the wind howled around the reinforced building. Inside, the banks of electronic equipment, still in perfect condition behind the electromagnetic protection of their antinuke Faraday Cages, waited for the flip of a switch to become live once more. Unfortunately, after so many decades, there was nobody alive who had any idea how to operate the complex machinery, and so it stayed in perpetual readiness, a technology fly trapped forever in the amber of ignorance.

  Surrounding the radar station was a sp
rawling ville of over a hundred homes, every one with a plastic roof as protection from the acid rains that came every spring. Many of the younger people called their home Radar ville, but always in secret. The baron and his sec men adhered to the old ways, and would only refer to the place as Radar Station #4, and nothing else.

  A great bank of rusting machines formed the main wall, sealing off the peninsula from the mainland, the corroded hulks joined into a single, homogenous mass by the liberal application of quicken, a sort of homemade concrete made from burned clay, crushed sea-shells and sand. Reaching over twenty feet tall with no gate of any kind, the wall kept out all of the muties on the island, including the triple-cursed thunder kings.

  There was a sheer cliff separating the ville from the turbulent sea, with only one small pathway leading down to a sandy cove that had been hewn from the wild rocks by sheer strength of will and black-powder charges. Access to the ville was achieved by a fleet of catamarans, sleek double-boats that streaked effortlessly over the choppy waves to a sandy beach a good mile from the buildings. Any invaders would have to cross that distance just to reach the first structure, and that was a fortified pillbox armed with blasters, crossbows and a catapult of amazing accuracy for something copied from a book.

  Why some former baron had sealed the ville off from the rest of the island nobody knew for sure, but the stories were many and varied, each more inventive than the next. He was the last survivor of the predark government and carried a secret so big it could shatter the world. Another version was that the baron had actually been a machine, immortal and indestructible. A more popular version was that the old baron had created the thunder kings and been exiled here as his punishment. But what kind of punishment was that? Radar ville was paradise on Earth compared to a lot of places, especially some of the rad holes on the mainland. The only person who might have known the truth was Beltrane, but the kid was triple crazy, even more so than most doomies, and extracting a grain of truth from his mad ramblings was becoming harder every year.