Latitude Zero

by James Axler

  Krysty took advantage of the moment of inattention and took a half step forward, flexing the powerful muscles in her thighs. She swung her right foot behind her, then kicked up and forward with all her strength.

  The chiseled toe hit Larry in the center of his scrotal sac. The sight of Mildred partly undressed had produced the beginnings of arousal, but all of that was crushed upward against the cutting ridge of his pubic bone.

  There was a single, stretched moment of unbelievable, sickening agony for Larry Ballinger, then the razor dropped from numbed fingers to the wooden floor. He opened his mouth and tried to scream, but nothing came out. He took two staggering steps backward and stumbled over his brother's body. His eyes had rolled up in his head, and yellow vomit dribbled from his open mouth. His hands were reaching for his groin to try to stem the terrible pain, but the blackness came surging up and washed him into unconsciousness first.

  "Them boys!" R. G. Ballinger laughed, listening to what he assumed were the noises of forced sexual congress.

  "We open the door and he'll blast us," J.B. said.

  "Could take him out by shooting through one of the windows," Ryan suggested.

  Doc had drawn his massive Le Mat. "What I do not quite comprehend is what the rogue is doing there? Is he a Peeping Tom, do you think? Spying on our female companions?"

  Ryan shook his head. "No. Looks like he's waiting for something. I don't like it. Not at all. It's like he's waiting for a signal from inside the bunkhouse. Means that mebbe those two nukeheads are trying something on."

  "Safest blast fucker," Jak said.

  "No." Ryan shook his head. "Suppose Larry and Jim-boy are inside. They see Pa chilled, and what do they do? Chill Krysty and Mildred. We gotta wait awhile."

  MILDRED PULLED HER blouse together, looking down at the corpses.

  "Let me," she said,

  "What?"

  "Chill that bastard—if you left any breath in him after dividing his family jewels with your boot."

  "What about your doctor's oath, Mildred?"

  "That was then, Krysty, and this is now." She knelt down and put her right hand to Larry's neck. "Pulse is weak. Could be you might have killed him. Shock like that. But we'll make sure."

  She moved finger and thumb to where the big artery still throbbed behind his ears, pressing, holding. The sound of harsh breathing became uneven and more ragged. It slowed and the unconscious man suddenly gave a huge shuddering sigh.

  And became quiet.

  "That it?" Krysty asked unnecessarily, because she knew that it was. You see enough death, and you never ever mistake it for anything else.

  "That's it." Mildred stood. "Now all we got to do is worry about Daddy Bear."

  The old man had been at the corn mash over the evening meal, keeping himself topped up from an old fruit jar he hid on a ledge by the back door of the house. The mellow feeling was rising nicely, and he knew he'd soon feel good and ready to join his boys. Not that he actually did anything. He just watched and maybe diddled a little. Truth was, he hadn't managed to get anything approaching a real diamond cutter of a hard-on…since Martha. Since before Martha. It had gone real quiet.

  "HE'S COMING IN," Mildred announced. "Blast him now?"

  Krysty shook her head. "Wait. If we miss him he can still go and take out the others. Just wait a couple of seconds longer."

  THE DOOR WAS jammed inside. Ballinger pushed at it and found that it would only open a couple of inches.

  "C'mon, boys. Open up for your pa." Nothing happened, and the bunkhouse was deathly quiet. "Stop that screwing and open up this fucking door! Jim! Larry!"

  Mildred and Krysty stood on either side of the door, flattened against the wall, each holding a blaster.

  The door moved again as Ballinger leaned his weight against it.

  "YOU BOYS GONNA feel the buckle of my belt around your asses if you don't open this door in five seconds."

  If Krysty's blaster had been a more powerful weapon she'd have taken a chance on blasting the man clean through the door.

  Across the yard Ryan had his Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless assault rifle to his shoulder. The sniper-scope sight was centered on the top of Ballinger's spine, just below his collar. But he'd now heard enough to be sure that the two sons were probably in the other bunkhouse with Krysty and Mildred. There didn't seem to be a right move to make. Squeeze the trigger and the two women could die. Don't squeeze the trigger and the two women could die.

  Jak touched him on the shoulder, his voice in Ryan's ear.

  "Me," he whispered.

  "No noise," Ryan replied, lowering the blaster and turning toward the boy. Jak's hair was like a cosmic flare in the pale moonlight, his face like wind-washed bone.

  "Knife," Jak said, showing one of the leaf-bladed throwing knives he wore hidden about his body. "No noise."

  He opened the door slowly, glancing out toward the shadowy figure of Ballinger, calculating the distance and the rotation of the blade. Moonlight shimmered cold off the steel.

  "YOUR TIME'S UP, you thankless sons of a bitch! I'm coming in for my piece of the action. Here I— What the fuck was… Shot me and—"

  Ryan hadn't been able to follow the flight of the knife. He'd seen the supple whip of Jak's wrist and thought he'd heard the soft thunk of the weighted steel hitting flesh.

  Inside the other bunkhouse the two women heard the gasp of shock from Ballinger and then the clatter of the shotgun hitting dry earth.

  "Didn't hear a blaster," Mildred said, turning to Krysty. "Silencer?"

  "Guess a knife. The kid."

  The men came quietly from their bunkhouse, all holding blasters. Ballinger turned tp face them, staggering slightly, one hand waving in the air like a drunk greeting an old friend.

  "How'd you…" he began, sliding to his knees, shaking his head.

  Like a child slipping into a warm river, the man slithered down onto his face. His boots scrabbled for a moment in the dirt and then he was still.

  Mildred and Krysty quickly got the door open and stepped out, looking at the dead man near their feet. Jak moved forward and stooped, pulling his knife from the back of Ballinger's neck, just below the skull. He wiped it in the dust and sheathed it. "You all right?" Ryan asked? "Sure, lover. Thanks, Jak."

  "The boys?" J.B. probed.

  Mildred jerked her thumb behind her. "They're in there."

  There was a faint creaking sound, and the door of the main homestead opened. Christina Ballinger stood there, holding a golden oil lamp in one hand, an ancient Winchester repeater in the other. She looked at the group of people, circling the corpse of her father. Slowly she began to move toward them, her crippled foot trailing in the sand. Her face showed no emotion.

  Ryan considered shooting her on the principle of never taking unnecessary chances, but the rifle was at the trail and her finger was away from the trigger. The woman didn't seem like she was intending any threat to them.

  Christina stopped a few paces from the friends, her eyes raking them, settling finally on the albino boy. "You killed my father?"

  "Yeah."

  "What about my brothers? What about Larry and Jim?"

  "Inside," Krysty replied.

  "They both dead as well?"

  "Both dead."

  There was a long moment of silence, the far-off howl of the coyote the only sound.

  Christina nodded. "That's good."

  Chapter Seven

  CHRISTINA HAD insisted on burying her father and her two brothers, refusing help, though she finally accepted Jak Lauren's repeated offer of assistance. The three bodies went into the same grave, with no marker. The hole was dug deep in the soft earth, and Ryan asked Jak why that had been.

  "Said didn't want 'em rising."

  After a good breakfast of eggs fried over easy, smoked ham and cornbread, Ryan asked Christina to go outside with him to talk.

  The hardness and tension had already begun to slip away from Christina's face, and her eyes were brighter. Twice she even s
miled.

  "I'm sorry about the way this turned out," Ryan apologized. "It wasn't of our making."

  That was the first smile. "You think I don't know that, Ryan? You don't mind my calling you by your given name, do you?"

  "Course not. I guess life wasn't easy."

  Christina nodded. "Work a homestead like this and life's not easy. If you get born with a gimp leg it doesn't help none. And having someone like Pa rule your life kind of puts the lid on the kettle."

  "You ever think of running?" he asked, looking around at the barren wilderness and realizing immediately the futility of the question.

  It produced a second smile. "Sure, Ryan. Just set off running. North? South? East? West? I could've taken one of the horses, but they'd have caught me and Pa would have been angered. If I wasn't a lady I could show you things Pa done to me when he got himself in a righteous anger."

  "You want to come with us?"

  She looked at him, and he was suddenly aware of the rawboned beauty that had been hidden behind the mask of restraint and fear.

  "Yes. I'd like that a real lot. You seem good folks."

  "Then we can—"

  But she interrupted him, holding up a warning hand. "But I won't come, Ryan. I'll stay here. Work the land."

  "How can—"

  "Work the land," she repeated. "My land. I've earned this spread, Ryan, and I'm not about to ride away without a backward glance."

  "It's too big a job. It'll break you down."

  "I bend, Ryan, but I don't break that easy. Never know, might get myself some help one of these fine days."

  "I hope so. I truly hope so, Christina."

  THEY AGREED TO a deal over six saddle horses plus a rangy pack mule. The jack had changed hands, and Christina had tucked it into a dark green coffee can that sat over the fireplace.

  Ryan and the others had gone to check on the girths and stirrups for their ride south. It was several minutes before Krysty noticed that Jak wasn't with the rest of them.

  "Must be outside," Ryan suggested.

  "Or in the outhouse," Mildred said.

  "Probably deeply immersed with the lady," Doc offered.

  "What? A kid like Jak, and Christina? She's a woman grown," J.B. said disbelievingly.

  Ryan patted his bay mare on the neck, looking away from the homestead into the distant heat haze where they'd soon be heading. There was a darkening on the farthest horizon, which suggested the possibility of rain.

  "I'll go get him. Don't like the look of that sky."

  He walked toward the main house, seeing swirling dust devils out on the plain beyond the corral. A ball of sagebrush tore loose and rolled away, jamming itself to a halt against a fence of old, rusting barbed wire.

  "C'mon, Jak!" he yelled as he stepped onto the porch.

  From the cooler, shadowed gloom within the main room he caught sudden movement. But his eye wasn't accustomed to the darkness, and he couldn't be sure what he'd seen. Or what he'd nearly seen.

  "You ready, Jak?"

  The teenager had stepped away quickly to stand near the table, his fingers drumming nervously on the scarred wood.

  "Sure, sure."

  Ryan glanced across to where Christina Ballinger stood, hand patting at her hair. "Don't want to change your mind and ride along with us?"

  To his surprise it was Jak who answered. "Doesn't, Ryan. Asked her. Said not."

  "Oh, well, if you're sure…"

  "I'm sure as I can be, Ryan. Thanks for the invitation. A big part of me wants to come along with you all, but this is home."

  "As long as you can manage the stock and—"

  The boy slapped his hand on the table. "Fucking said not, Ryan. Drop it!"

  "Hey, come on," Ryan said, feeling a surge of anger at the boy's rudeness. "Just watch the way—"

  Christina stepped between them, shaking her head. "Easy now, easy," she said, as if she were gentling a couple of spooked animals. "No call for this."

  "You're right." Ryan nodded. "I'm real sorry. Sorry, Jak."

  "Sure. Sorry, Ryan. Sorry, Christina."

  The three of them waited, like a frozen tableau. Ryan took a couple of steps toward the open door and the dazzling sunlight, but the boy made no move to follow.

  "Jak, there's a chem storm blowing up a way south. We should leave."

  "Yeah. Go, Ryan. Catch up. Coupla fucking minutes is all."

  Ryan hesitated, completely thrown, unable to understand what was happening. He was puzzled at Jak's determined refusal to join them.

  Christina smiled gently. "Don't worry, Ryan. I won't eat him. It's just that he and I need a few minutes to talk some."

  "What about?"

  "That comes down to being Jak's business and my business, Ryan, and not your business at all. Sorry. He'll be out in five minutes and on the trail after you in ten. I promise."

  "Fine." He turned toward the door, then stopped, swinging to face her again. "I wish you well, Christina. I mean it."

  "I know you do. And may your gods go with you, Ryan." Her voice followed him into the morning. "And I'll always be in your debt."

  AS THEY RODE toward the darkening sky, neither Jak nor Ryan said anything to satisfy the curiosity of their friends regarding what had gone on at the homestead.

  Doc was the only one who tried to question the boy.

  "You reach an understanding with that woman, Jak?"

  "My business, Doc."

  "She's almost old enough to be your mother, wouldn't you say?" Doc persisted.

  "Say you're fucking old enough be nearly chilled, Doc."

  "Guess there's some degree of truth in that, Jak. I won't argue with you. And you're right. Privacy is of prime importance."

  "Yeah," the teenager said.

  In front of them they could see towering thunder-heads, blotting out the hazy sun and bringing an oppressive, humid gloom across the land. On either side of the highway were narrow arroyos, their bottoms deeply sculpted and eroded by rain and frost.

  Lightning streaked in silver-purple daggers, bringing an almost ceaseless rumble of thunder.

  J.B. hunched his shoulders and tugged on the brim of his fedora, settling it tighter on his head. "Could be bad," he said.

  "Yeah," Ryan agreed.

  Chapter Eight

  THE STORM HELD OFF for almost an hour, but the sky boiled with the swollen clouds. Lightning slashed across the turbulent canvas, and thunder cascaded all around them.

  The horses were uncomfortable, twice J.B.'s mare got spooked and made a frantic dash along the dusty blacktop. It took all of the Armorer's strength and skill to control the frightened mare.

  All the animals were edgy, and only Doc seemed able to ride comfortably.

  In his early life, particularly around the ville of Front Royale, Ryan had ridden a lot. But over the past ten years he hadn't spent much time on horseback. Krysty kept leaning forward and whispering to the Appaloosa she'd picked out, trying to keep it calm.

  Jak clung to the back of a tall gelding, like a burr stuck to the hide of a buffalo. His white hair glowed in the dimness of the approaching storm and he hadn't spoken a word to anyone in the past fifty minutes or so.

  But Doc, on a black stallion, rode with a stately grace. His grizzled hair blew out around his head in a silvery halo, making him look like a circuit preacher of olden times.

  "Best damned fun I've had in a long while," he called across to Ryan.

  "Hard on the ass, Doc."

  "I noticed that you have been riding tall in the saddle, Ryan," the old man cackled. "Thought you might have been stricken with piles."

  "Go shove it up a skunk's ass, Doc."

  There was another burst of eldritch laughter, which was quickly drowned out by a peal of thunder.

  THE TRAIL WOUND down a gentle slope toward a valley, steep on the right and shallower on the left. On the lower side, about a quarter mile off, Ryan could see what looked like a dried-out riverbed, snaking southward along the highway.

  The air ta
sted bitter from the nearness of the storm. Ryan had considered going back to the homestead, but they were already too far along the road toward the Grandee.

  Over the years he'd seen many bad chem storms. The nuke holocaust of more than a hundred years ago had done much more than just destroy human society—it had altered the face of the land forever and had changed the climate, giving it new extremes, new highs.

  And new lows.

  Doc was moving ahead at a slow canter, with Krysty riding second, her vermilion hair blowing behind her like a mane of fire. J.B. was third, towing the mule, Mildred leaning over her mount's neck just behind him. Jak was in fifth place, and Ryan ate everyone's dust at the rear.

  The albino turned in his saddle, glancing behind him. For a moment Ryan thought that the boy was looking at him, then he realized that the glowing ruby eyes were focused far behind him, way back up the winding blacktop.

  "You could have stayed," Ryan called, pitching his voice so that only Jak would be able to hear him.

  The teenager heeled in his horse and waited for Ryan to move up beside him.

  "Yeah," he said. "Could've stayed. One day. Like stop running. Killing. One day. Not now."

  "And not there?" Ryan suggested, thinking about the age difference between the snow-haired lad and the rawboned woman.

  Jak's answer was drowned out by the loudest crash of thunder that there'd yet been.

  And the first heavy spots of cool rain came pattering into the red dust.

  Within thirty seconds the storm swallowed up the group. Ryan immediately lost sight of the others, the rain sheeting around him in a blinding, swirling pall. He blinked as the water coursed over his face, running down his neck, under his shirt, chilling his stomach. It was so powerful that it even trickled behind the patch over his destroyed left eye.

  His horse pulled against the reins, then stopped dead, lowering its own head, stubbornly resisting all of his efforts to kick it along. Accepting the inevitable, Ryan leaned forward and waited. There'd been no cover anywhere around. There was nothing else to do.