Latitude Zero

by James Axler

  The one thing they all knew from bitter experience was just how dangerous a swarm of such mutated bees could be. Unless you could seal yourself in some safe cover, you just had to pray the swarm didn't come your way.

  The sound was growing louder, a whining, like a distant electric drill cutting through the sky. But there was still no sign of the actual swarm.

  There wasn't a hint of cover for a good half mile, and even the fittest of them would take at least five minutes to sprint across the broken terrain. The speed at which the sound was racing toward them made it unlikely that they had even two minutes.

  "Why can't we see them?" Ryan snarled.

  The noise swelled, rising to a demonic screech. Something blurred at the corner of Ryan's vision and J.B.'s beloved fedora flew from his head.

  "Dark night."

  The sound Dopplered away across the valley and then seemed to turn and head back toward them. Ryan felt a chill of unease at his nape. Whatever the creature was, it didn't seem like a swarm of bees. But it wasn't like anything that Ryan had ever encountered before.

  "You all right, J.B.?" he asked, his eye raking the land below them.

  "Yeah, but something took a damned great bite out of my hat." He picked it up and poked a finger through a ragged gash near the crown.

  "It's coming again," Mildred warned. She'd drawn her ZKR 551 six-shot revolver. Chambered to take the standard .38 Smith & Wesson round, the blaster had been designed as a target pistol. Mildred had represented her country in the last ever Olympic Games in Atlanta in 19% in the free shooting event, and had picked up the silver medal.

  The shrieking closed in, then softened and seemed to swing high in the air above them. It was Krysty, with her mutie-enhanced vision, who finally spotted what they were up against.

  "There!" she yelled. "Some kinda insect. Just one."

  All of them, except Doc, saw it. The old man had drawn his ponderous Le Mat pistol and was waving it around. Everyone had a blaster out, but the target was tiny, hovering at least a hundred feet above them. To Ryan it looked like some sort of mutie dragonfly, but from the evidence of J.B.'s hat it was a potentially lethal opponent.

  "Coming again!" Jak shouted, cradling his head to protect himself from the shrieking dive.

  J.B. was the only one to try to shoot at the plummeting speck of iridescent color, the crack of his blaster sounding flat and weak in the desert stillness.

  But the creature was way too fast and elusive. It's target was Krysty, possibly because of her tumbling fiery hair. The woman raised a hand then cried out in pain.

  There was the hiss of the thing's passage and a high-pitched whine as it looped above them again. Krysty held her right wrist in her left hand, dark blood trickling between her fingers. Her face was pale with shock, and she turned to look at Ryan through blurred eyes.

  "I'm fine, lover," she said. "It took a slice from my arm, but… Better find some way of stopping the little bastard before it takes out an eye."

  For once, Ryan was totally at a loss. The insect was too small and too fast for anyone to have much hope of hitting it, and ferocious enough to present a real threat to them. As Krysty said, if it chose to go for an eye… The thought made him wince, and lift a hand unconsciously to his one good eye.

  "It's getting ready to come again," Mildred said.

  "Perhaps if we all shoot at once?" Doc suggested.

  "No," Mildred said. "The little mother's mine."

  The blaster, designed by the Koucky brothers for the Zbrojovka works at Brno, was steady in her right hand. She'd already operated the thumb-cocking hammer, and the ZKR 551 was ready to speak.

  "No hope," Doc scoffed. "There's more chance of finding snow in Albuquerque in July."

  "Shut it, Doc," she warned.

  The creature was getting ready to blitz them again. Straining his vision, Ryan was just able to make it out as a tiny dot, wings humming as it held its position.

  It looked no bigger than a grain of sand against the light sky.

  The revolver fired, bucking a little against Mildred's wrist.

  "Dark night," J.B. whispered. "You got it, Mildred."

  There had been an almost human screech, then the dot was tumbling, over and over, growing larger as it fell.

  It thudded to earth only a dozen paces from Ryan, hitting the top of a frost-shattered boulder and flopping lifelessly to the orange dust beneath it.

  The six friends circled the dead creature where it lay broken in the dirt.

  "Fucking bird," Jak spit.

  It was a mutie hawk with a wingspan no larger than a child's hand. Its plumage was a dark coppery-green, almost black, and glistened in the sunlight. The heavy bullet had smashed its breast apart, killing it instantly. Its beak, hooked and vicious, was tipped with Krysty's blood.

  "It's beautiful," Krysty said, busily tying a strip of cloth around her wrist. "Gaia! But it's so beautiful."

  "You make me feel bad about chilling it."

  J.B. was staring at the bullet wound in the falcon's body. "That has to be around the best show I ever saw, Mildred."

  "No. One of the worst. I was aiming at its head."

  They left almost immediately, but the scavenging ants of the desert were already picking their way around the bird's corpse.

  There was still no sign of human life around the small farm. As they started toward the ribbon of highway it became easier to make out the livestock—cows, pigs and horses, all in pens or corrals. Once they heard the sudden noise of a guard dog barking, but the sound stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

  "It can't have scented us," Ryan said. "Wind's blowing the wrong way for that." , "Anyone inside should have seen us by now," J.B. observed. "We stand out on this light sand like moose shit on a christening gown."

  "I have been considering that small dark bird we saw," Doc said. "And there is something that evades the edge of my memory about such a falcon."

  "What's that, Doc?" Krysty asked.

  "All I recall—"

  The old man was interrupted by the crack of a hunting rifle, the bullet kicking up a plume of dirt a yard from the toes of his boots.

  Chapter Three

  AS RYAN DIVED for cover into a shallow draw a dozen yards from the blacktop, he spotted the white puff of powder smoke from one of the windows of the house. He'd already noticed that the spread was built like a small fortress.

  There was a heavy studded door at the front, and all of the visible windows had stout wooden shutters, with firing holes cut in their centers. A second floor also had protected windows. It looked at first glance that it would take some serious firepower to get inside.

  The first shot was followed by an irregular, scattered volley, but everyone had easily made cover. If the aggressive defenders had waited another fifty yards or so they could have caused some serious damage. There was the sound of bellowed laughter from inside the house, and then someone shouted angry orders. Silence followed.

  "Want us to start blasting back at 'em?" J.B. called.

  "No. Not yet."

  Isolated houses most anywhere in Deathlands were desperately vulnerable to attack. There were always gangs of roaming outlanders—hired guns—riding together in killer bands, and several areas still held groups of murderous muties. Ryan couldn't altogether blame someone who'd adopted the policy of shooting first and getting around to talking awhile later. A dead man would never try to backshoot you.

  "Yo, in there!" he shouted.

  Nobody answered. Ryan cautiously eased his head up over the top of the ridge. Four of the front windows contained a rifle muzzle but nobody replied to his yell.

  "Hey, in there!"

  This time there was a response—a deep voice, ragged and harsh. "Get on your way and nobody gets hurt!"

  "Need water and food!"

  "Go!"

  "Got jack."

  Both Ryan and J.B. carried jack with them wherever they went, enough to pick up some of the basics with a little to spare. Some big villes issued thei
r own scrip, but the ordinary jack was accepted in most places.

  "Where you from?"

  "Traders! Wagon blew its engine out east."

  "You seen that mountain go up?"

  "Yeah. We were lucky. You going to let us come in or you going to try and blow our heads off?"

  There was another long silence. Ryan could hear three men's voices, and once he thought he heard a woman speaking. But the sound of a hand striking flesh shut it up.

  "How many of you?"

  "Six. Two of us women."

  "One of the women black?"

  "Yeah. That a problem?"

  The answer was a heartbeat too fast. "No. No problem, mister. You got blasters?"

  Ryan considered that one for a moment. J.B., a half dozen paces to his left, glanced across at him and said, "Two single-shot homemades. One's a Winchester repeater. Sounds like an M-16 as well."

  If that was what the Armorer thought, then that's almost certainly the firepower they had in the house. J.B. wasn't often wrong on weaponry.

  Ryan raised his voice to the listeners. "Yeah. We got us some blasters."

  "Any of you ride with Skullface?"

  "Who?"

  "Skullface."

  "Never heard of him."

  The disbelief from the hidden speaker was obvious. "You been trading these parts and you never heard of Skullface?"

  "We been east trading in the Glades. Never heard of any Skullface that way."

  "Well, they say he hunts south of here. We ain't never seen him, but we heard tell from travelers that way. You sure you ain't with him?"

  "Mister, I'm hot, thirsty and tired. So're my friends. This talk is making me powerful wearied! You going to let us in, or…" Ryan let the sentence dangle in the hot, still air.

  "Or what?"

  "Or we'll shoot the hell out of your dog-knobbing, shit-dipping little hut!"

  "Oh, yeah? You and whose army, mister?" But Ryan's anger had sown seeds of doubt.

  "We got plas-ex enough to spread you and your kin all over the fucking desert, thin as honey on a sour roll."

  "Now, there ain't no call… Just show yourselves, slow and easy."

  "I'll stand up here. Then you come out the door. How's that?"

  "Sure. You move first."

  "Careful, lover," Krysty warned. "Can't say I like the sound of his voice."

  "Me, neither. But I like the look of that well out back."

  "Like smell baking bread," Jak called from his right.

  Keeping his hand hovering over the butt of the SIG-Sauer P-226 pistol, and pushing back his long coat to give himself a clear draw at it, Ryan stood up.

  It wasn't the first time in his life that he'd stood out in the open, facing hidden blasters, but that didn't make it any easier. The skin still crawled across his cheeks, tugging at the edge of the livid scar that coursed from eye to mouth. His finger still flexed, wanting to grip the butt of the pistol. Every nerve was taut as a waxed bowstring, ready for the lightning reflex that would probably still be too slow to save his life.

  One of the rifle muzzles had disappeared. Apart from that, there didn't seem any sign of movement from the fortified house.

  "Door's opening," Krysty whispered, her sharp hearing picking up the faint sounds of oiled bolts sliding across.

  There was an edge of darkness against the sun-bright wood, growing slowly wider. The muzzle of a battered Winchester appeared, followed by its owner. He was a tall man, several inches over six feet, heavily built, bald with a fringe of dusty grey hair, narrow eyes and a full mustache. At first glance Ryan made him out to be in his early fifties, which was a good age for the deserts of Deathlands.

  "Name's R. G. Ballinger. You and your friends are welcome to share God's repast with us. Come on in, slow and easy. Remember we got blasters on you."

  "I'm Ryan Cawdor. We thank you."

  There were four in the family.

  R. G. Ballinger, a widower, had been farming the valley for more than twenty years. His wife, Martha, had died several years ago. He had three children—two boys, Larry and Jim, in their twenties, and a daughter, Christina, who looked close to thirty.

  She was a rawboned, homely woman, with a built-up laced boot on her left foot. She walked with an ungainly, hip-swinging motion, the boot clunking on the scrubbed plank floors at every step. Her hair was a stringy midbrown, tugged back in a tight knot, and her eyes were a watery blue. There was the mark of a healing bruise on her left cheek. In the first couple of hours that Ryan and his companions were in the homestead she never spoke a word. Ryan would have figured her as simpleminded, if he hadn't glimpsed a spark of interest and intelligence when the conversation turned to outland matters.

  "You ain't heard of Skullface? Son of Beelzebub? The Antichrist come to inherit with the riders of chaos?"

  Ryan shook his head at Ballinger's question. "No. He some sort of raider?"

  "Came down here a few months back. Got hisself a band of mean sons of bitches. Women as well as men. Brought death and pestilence, near the Grandee. But I heard tell as how he's riding north, burning the earth behind him."

  Ballinger used the last of his cornbread to mop up the streaks of dark gravy off his tin plate. He clicked his fingers to attract his daughter's attention. "Bring us some more stew, slut, and stop making eyes at these men. Just like your scarlet whore of a mother. Best keep your hands on your cocks while this steaming harlot's around."

  Without a word, Christina served her father from a large iron caldron. Her face was blank, her eyes not settling anywhere.

  The brothers sniggered. Larry, the fatter of the two, poked Jim with his elbow. "Pa told the slut, didn't he? Teach her keep her greedy eyes off men's weenies, huh? Keep it in the family like…"

  "A chattering tongue is an offence to the courts of the Almighty, Larry," said his father, silencing the grinning boy.

  Krysty broke the uncomfortable silence. "How'd your wife die, Mr. Ballinger? Sickness?"

  "Could say that, Miss Wroth. Kind of a sickness took her away from us."

  Not altering the sanctimonious tone of his voice, he addressed his sons. "Wipe off the smiles, boys, or by the heavenly gaudy house I'll wipe 'em off. Clear the table, slut."

  Ryan was aware of the tension around the table at the brutal way the farmer treated his daughter. But it wasn't their business. That was one of the very first rules for survival in Deathlands.

  "Trade in the morning, folks," Ballinger said, leaning sideways in his chair and easing out a thunderous fart. "Guess you'd like some sleep?"

  Ryan nodded. "Sure would. Seen a couple of small bunkhouses out back. You got some hired hands working the spread?"

  Ballinger had risen and turned away. At Ryan's question he turned slowly back to face him, his small eyes glowing like late embers. "What have you heard, Mr. Cawdor?"

  "Hey! Talking to you's like walking over eggs, Ballinger. Just a question. You got a big spread. You got bunkhouses. So, you got some hands to help you work the land?"

  "Not now. Not since… not since we had us some trouble. Gimpy slut stays here, and me and the boys do the rest."

  "How much land?"

  Jak hadn't spoken since they'd arrived, and his question took everyone by surprise.

  "How much, son? Well… By Jesus and the blood of the shroud, you sure got white hair and scary eyes. Used to have more'n we do now."

  It seemed yet another touchy subject, and the teenager contented himself with nodding. Out of the corner of his eye Ryan noticed the disabled girl had been watching Jak with unusual interest.

  "Now. One place got four beds, the other got three. The nigra woman sleep with you folks?"

  Mildred answered, eyes cast low, voice rising into a scratchy whine. "Lordy, Mr. Ballinger, these are real good white folks and they take care of me. I sleep in with Missy Wroth. If I'm lucky I get a bed, but most nights I just get the cold, cold floor."

  "Well, we got the beds. Slut'll take out some blankets. Talk business in the morning. Want
to leave your blasters here with me? No? No, I guess not."

  There'd been liquor offered during the meal, a raw corn spirit that threatened to take the skin off the tongue. Ryan and the others had drunk sparingly, but the two Ballinger boys had nuzzled into it like they were weaned on it. Both were red-eyed, thick-lipped and staggering by the time the meal was finished.

  One of them hung on his father's shoulder and mumbled something in his ear, smiling a sloppy smile at Krysty. Old man Ballinger had shaken him off with an impatient curse, waving a warning fist in his face. He noticed that everyone had watched the exchange and managed an insincere grin.

  "Boys! What the hell d'you do with 'em, huh? Least they don't bring their troubles home with 'em like sluts do."

  Mildred and Krysty took the smaller of the bunk-houses. When the door was opened there was the familiar sound of cockroaches scuttling for cover. Christina Ballinger had shown them to their quarters, carrying a pile of bedding, shrugging away Jak's offer of help.

  "Thanks," Krysty said. "We can manage now."

  "No. Pa said for me to do the bedding. He'd not take it kindly if I didn't."

  She'd put the blankets on one of the bunks and her hand rose, unconsciously, to touch the dark bruise on her face.

  "Sure," Mildred barked. "We get the picture. By God but we do."

  The girl managed something that came close to being a smile. "Pa's quick with his hand. But since Ma… I gotta do the beds. Gotta clean up the dishes and then makes the beds up for Larry and Jim."

  She moved with a clumsy grace around the room, unfolding the bedding and tucking in the blankets with a practiced ease. Krysty and Mildred stood and watched her, uncomfortable that they couldn't help. Jak had also hung around, waiting silently in the corner of the room by the door.

  "There," she said finally. "I did the other bunkhouse. Best get on back. You folks sleep well and…" The young woman hesitated a long moment, looking over her shoulder toward the silhouette of the main homestead. "The door bolts, but the windows don't. Sleep light and watchful."

  "What's that supposed to mean, Christina?" Mildred asked. "You saying there's some danger to us?"

  The door of the fortified house crashed open and R. G. Ballinger bellowed into the still evening. "Get the fuck over here you useless crip! Boys want to get to their beds."