by James Axler
Chill Factor
The Deathland series
Book XV
James Axler
First edition May 1992
ISBN 0-373-62515-4
Copyright © 1992 by Worldwide Library
Philippine copyright 1992
Australian copyright 1992
Content
Excerpt
Dedication
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Excerpt
The cliff face bulged out, releasing a wave of pent-up slurry that knocked Ryan off his feet.
His mouth filled with the stinking ooze, and he fought for his life, struggling in blind desperation to get back onto his feet.
The initial tide eased, and he managed to claw himself upright, fumbling for his shovel. He wiped his eye clear of the mud and looked around frantically for Dean. But the boy had vanished under the wall of earth, mud and water.
"Get help, Kate! Call the sec men. Need shovels here, now!"
The noise of feet rattled on the ladder, and someone bellowed orders, shouting for everyone to get out before the whole place caved in.
"There's folks trapped!" Ryan called, his digging fingers suddenly touching something soft and yielding, flesh within cloth. The one-eyed man scrabbled in the yellow muck, heaving out a limp little body.
"Leave him be," the sec man ordered. "We'll get him up top."
"I'll carry him," Ryan insisted, not even looking at the guard.
Ryan didn't see the rifle butt as it went crashing into the side of his skull. He recovered and reached for the sec man, his fingers clawing for the pale, staring face. But the M-16 swung down a second time, and he toppled into a dark chasm of unconsciousness.
Dedication
Once he rode with the rest of the cavalry. Now he's keeping me company, heading out together into the Promised Land.
With very sincere thanks for all his help over many years in keeping the payroll safe from the Apaches, this is for Don Day.
Quote
Most of us would not be capable of taking the life of another human being, whatever the provocation. A minority might do it if sufficiently aroused. But there have always been and always will be, the mercifully small number of men, and women, who can kill. And kill. And kill again.
From
The Upward Spiral of Death
By Hamilton Binder, 1903
Chapter One
THE WALLS OF the gateway were silvered glass, and Ryan Cawdor knew that they were back in New Mexico. The jump hadn't been too bad.
Outside the ruined redoubt the morning sun was breaking over the mountains to the east, throwing long shadows across the desert.
The companions managed to pick their way down onto the level ground without any difficulty, Doc Tanner and Mildred Wyeth helping each other over the steeper sections. Ryan was worried to see new tracks on the trail outside the military complex.
"Someone's coming," Krysty Wroth said, busily tying her hair back off her neck with a black bandanna.
The rising sun was in the youth's face, highlighting his dazzling white hair. There was no possibility of mistaking Jak Lauren.
He was riding a bay mare, spurring the horse on at a fast trot that turned into a dust-burning gallop when he spotted the little group of friends.
Krysty stared intently toward him as he closed the gap to a hundred yards. Her face was set like pale marble, and she reached out to grip Ryan by the wrist, hard enough to make him wince.
"Oh, no," she said, her voice soft and shocked.
Jak reined in the sweating, lathered horse, throwing himself from the saddle. "Heard your radio message. You hear mine?"
"No. What?"
The teenager's eyes blazed like chips of nuked ruby. "Dean."
Ryan stared at him, wondering what could have happened to his ten-year-old son. "What?"
"Taken."
"When?"
"Yesterday afternoon. Christina shot one of the gang."
"And?"
"Questioned him."
"Still got him?" Ryan was unable to control the anxiety in his voice.
"Died," Jak replied, as laconic as ever.
"Why didn't you ask him all—"
"Did. Slavers. North. Used gateway. Took Dean."
Ryan suddenly thought of the LD button—Last Destination. If this gang had jumped, then he could follow them. It wasn't all lost. Not yet.
"I'll go after them," he said. "Food and a rest, and then I'll go."
Jak nodded. "One other thing from wounded man. Before died."
"What?"
"Slavers' leader."
"Yeah?"
"Russian. Name Zimyanin."
Chapter Two
THE CORPSE LAY in a small barn to the east of the main house.
In warm weather it didn't take long for a human body to start deteriorating. Only a few hours and the eyes began to melt back into their sockets. The soft tissues of the mouth, nose and throat rotted next, along with the genital area.
The man had died around fifteen hours earlier and had been placed on an old door that stood on a trestle table.
It had gone through the brief period of rigor mortis and now looked relaxed, the skin darkening. The man was naked, head back, staring blankly at the roof beams above him in the dusty darkness. His hair was graying, cropped short, with an old scar seaming the side of the scalp just above the left ear.
He might almost have been asleep, if it hadn't been for the dreadful mutilations.
Christina had greeted them with a solemn pleasure, showing the way across to the barn. The strain of the last day showed on her face. She limped more heavily than usual, the built-up boot on her left foot dragging through the dust.
"Did you both question him?" Ryan asked.
Jak looked at his wife. "Both."
"Bullet killed him," Mildred said, leaning over to examine the dark-rimmed hole in the center of the man's chest, framed with the lacy pattern of dried blood. "Lungs. Can't have taken too long for him to die. Not just from that."
Jak nodded. "Knew that. Knew wouldn't live much. Had to find out where boy went."
The black doctor straightened. "Someone made it a hard passing for him. Carving knife, hot irons. Razor? Yeah, a razor. N
eedle by the eyes and through the end of his penis."
Doc coughed and turned away. "Think I'll go outside and get myself a smidgen of fresh air," he said. "Seems a tad humid in here. Just a little oppressive."
He went out, leaving the double doors ajar, so that a carpet of golden sunlight spilled across the straw and dust. It reached just to the foot of the makeshift table.
"I tortured him," Christina admitted. "Jak tied him so he couldn't move an inch. I made him go out while I did it. Best that way. Not a pretty sight what I did to the bastard."
There were rope burns around the man's wrists and ankles, and around his scrawny throat. The cords had been knotted so tightly that the pattern could still be seen on the skin, and blood had burst from under fingernails and toenails.
"You did right," Krysty said, touching the older woman on the arm.
"Once the boy's gone, one of the disappeared ones, you could search Deathlands all your life and never find him. Least we know more or less where he's been taken."
Ryan asked the question that had been tormenting him since Jak told him who the slavers' leader had been. "Did he say that they'd come specially for Dean? That this Zimyanin knew he was my son?"
Christina looked surprised. "No. Why should he? Man said they raided all around the Southwest and along the Big Miss River. Need them to work up north. Why should they have known who the boy was?"
"Long story," Ryan replied. "Tell us about the raid, and I'll tell you about Zimyanin."
She nodded. "Got a stew near ready. Must be hungered. Let's go in."
Ryan took a last glance at the tortured corpse. "How about him?"
"Bury tonight," Jak said.
THERE WAS little conversation during the meal. Everyone was too concerned with eating. Christina was an excellent cook. They ate beef stew, with potatoes and turnip greens, a rich gravy, flavored with herbs that she grew out in the trim back garden. There was fresh-baked cornbread and some blueberry muffins with butter and peach preserve.
Doc leaned back, his chair grating on the floor, and sighed. "Upon my soul, my dear young lady, but that was a feast fit for a prince. My sincere compliments on your culinary skill."
Christina smiled, almost for the first time since their arrival. "Why, thank you, Doc. My mother used to do her best, but…" The smile vanished like the dew off the morning prairie, and the sentence trailed away into stillness.
J. B. Dix filled the silence. Wiping a dribble of melted butter from his stubbled chin, he looked at Christina. "Tell us about how they came at you."
WITH OCCASIONAL interruptions and additions from Jak, she told them what had happened. Sleeves rolled up, elbows on the table, Christina kept it short and simple.
Dean had been checking fences, riding a pinto pony. He'd carried a small .22 hunting rifle in a saddle holster. Christina had given him some bread and bacon to carry him through the morning, with a canteen of spring water.
"No danger," Jak said. "Not been any trouble for long time here."
Ryan nodded. "Hell, I know that."
Jak had been working on a broken blade off the main windmill, up a long narrow ladder, and Christina had been salting down some pork in one of the sheds.
"Fine day. Few clouds to the south. Saw an old miner with his lame burro on the trail. See him every few months. He didn't stop."
Ryan interrupted her. "Could he be a scenter for these men?"
She shook her head. "No. Old Josiah couldn't pull the wings off a dead butterfly. About an hour after he passed I saw the dust."
There was a silence. Mildred reached and poured herself a mug of coffee-sub from the blue enameled pot. All of them knew that the sudden appearance of strangers on the road in Deathlands could mean instant trouble.
"Was higher. Saw better. But can't make out too good in bright sun."
Being an albino, with death-white skin and pink eyes, Jak had never been able to see very well in a strong light, though he saw better than most in semi-darkness.
Christina took up the story again.
"Dean was spurring his pony, about a hundred paces ahead of them."
"How many?" J.B. asked.
"About fifteen. Maybe twelve. Maybe twenty. Broken land like all over here…can't be certain of the numbers."
"Armed with…"
She looked at J.B., who'd taken off his glasses, wiping dirt off them.
Jak answered. "Haven't got your cunning. Only heard long guns. One we caught had small-caliber hideaway blaster and repaired carbine."
"What kind of discipline did they have?" This was a major question, and Ryan waited for the answer. There were enough gangs of raggedy killers all over Deathlands. They rose like a foul growth of weeds and generally didn't last more than a few weeks before they perished, months at the outside.
"Good. Skirmish line around house. Tried long enough. Pulled back. Tried to get wounded man. Too close. Left him."
"Yeah. Go on. How about Dean?"
"They shot his pony from under him."
Christina finished the brief story. "After they took Dean they came and tried for us. By then Jak was in the house and we had the firefight shutters up. One we shot—"
"You shot," Jak contradicted, unable to hide his pride. "Better'n me with long blasters. Knocked over in dirt by corral fence."
"Thought I'd chilled him clean." Christina smiled again. "Went over, legs kicking, like a brain-dead gopher. Think I hit a couple of others. Jak found blood after they'd gone."
He nodded. "Pool. Drag marks in grass like hauled off."
"Can we see what he was wearing and carrying?" J.B. stood.
"Out back. I'll tidy up in here."
"I'd be honored to be allowed to lend you a hand, Mrs. Lauren," Doc offered.
She blushed. "Not many call me that, Doc. But I'll take you up on it." She glanced at her teenaged husband. "Mebbe teach him a lesson in manners."
Jak got up hastily, nearly knocking his chair over, not meeting his wife's eyes. Mildred and Krysty also decided to stay in the house to rest, leaving J.B. and Ryan to accompany Jak outside into the baking heat.
Their boot heels crunched in the dirt, and the wind blew a ball of tumbleweed across the desert behind the homestead.
"You and Mildred together, J.B.?"
"Category of my business, kid."
"Don't call me 'kid,' old man."
All three of them laughed. "Old jokes are still the best," Ryan said, grinning.
THE CLOTHES AND BLASTERS were piled on a bench in a pitch-roofed shed. The wind tugged at the door, and Jak slipped the catch to close it.
Ryan picked over the blood-soaked pants and shirt, while the Armorer glanced at the rifle and the tarnished handgun.
"These are all thermal-lined!" Ryan exclaimed in surprise.
"Yeah. Some fuckers carried big coats. Like come from real cold place."
"Man you caught say where?"
"Didn't know. North. All said. Christina tried real hard to keep alive, but fucking weak from bullet."
"Dreck blasters," J.B. said. "Hideaway was once Model 87 Beretta. Looks like it'd blow your hand apart if you pulled the trigger."
"Long gun?"
"Old Marlin bolt-action. Seven shot. But it's been chopped around so much there's not much left they'd have recognized up in New Haven." He saw that Ryan and Jak looked puzzled. "Where they made them."
Ryan held up a woollen cap, showing it to J.B. "Recognize this?"
There was a badge on the front, a small, hand-beaten circle of silver.
"Russkies. They wore something like that."
Jak nodded. "I told Christina about that time in Moscow. You remember Zimyanin?"
Ryan nodded.
He remembered Zimyanin well enough.
They'd met Major-Commissar Gregori Zimyanin twice, once up in the wilderness of Alaska and once in the muddy roads around Moscow. He worked for the Security Section.
He was one of the strongest men that Ryan had ever met, with the bursting muscled look of so
meone who worked out every day and kept himself needle-sharp. Zimyanin wasn't very tall, as Ryan recalled, not much over five foot six, but stocky. He was totally bald, with a face badly marked by smallpox, and he'd worn a long, drooping mustache then.
The man had carried a Makarov 9 mm pistol, the PM model. And Ryan also remembered the long Dragunov sniper's rifle. By a quirk of the lords of chaos, it was an exceedingly rare weapon, yet it was similar to that used by Ryan's most bitter enemy, the late Cort Strasser.
Zimyanin had learned passable English between their two meetings, though it was archaic, making him sound like Doc Tanner on a bad day.
It had been a freakish accident that had led to Ryan being indirectly responsible for the Russian sec man being in Deathlands.
Now this man, with his ready smile and his strangler's hands, had Dean Cawdor prisoner.
"Will he know who boy is?" Jak asked the question as they walked back toward the house.
"Hope not," Ryan replied.
Chapter Three
"MY RESPONSIBILITY."
"Dean is Ryan's son, not ours, Jak."
"Know that. But Ryan left with us."
Freed of the weight of the heavy surgical boot, Christina stretched, relishing the cool linen sheets on her naked body.
"It wasn't our fault, Jak. They know that. Let them go after him."
In the dim light, she could see the magnesium flare of her young husband's white hair. He was shaking his head.
"Sorry, Chris. Real, real, sorry."
MILDRED REACHED DOWN over the short hairs of his chest and across the flat muscular wall of his stomach. She finally found him, cradling him, bringing him gently to readiness.
"What's this, John? I can't stand the way you keep bothering me with your incessant demands."
He chuckled, rolling onto his side, allowing his own fingers to work their way along the inside of her thighs, higher and closer.
She began to breathe faster. "One thing."
"What?"
"Before we get this boat launched into deep waters, I got a question."
"Yeah?"
"You going with Ryan?"
There was a momentary hesitation. "Guess so. If he wants me."
"That's what I thought." She began to caress him again. "I mean that's what I expected, John. I've got no problem with that."