by James Axler
Suddenly, Kinnison not could wait another second, and he clumsily swung the broken arm to his mouth and started tugging at the shirtsleeve with his teeth. The fine cloth ripped easily, and he started on the stained bandages. Steeling his stomach to the task, the man started chewing off the filthy strips. The smell of his diseased flesh turned his stomach, but he continued until inadvertently swallowing some saliva. The taste convulsed his entire body, and he violently retched.
Gasping for breath, he heard the rats arrive as if they knew what the sound was. They gathered around the sour puddle, and he crushed one underfoot, then kicked it into the corner. The rest converged on their wounded member and started to feast. Dripping sweat, Kinnison redoubled his efforts to get the putrid strips of cloth off his arm. They would be even more hungry when finished and would immediately turn on him. Now it was a race.
Ignoring the pain and taste, he ripped at the bandages madly until the last layer peeled away making the sores bleed anew. But there it was, a small iron key taped just below the break. Breathing through his nose, he lipped the item out of the slimy sore, and quickly jerked his head to the right, grabbed the key from his mouth and retched again, until his body was racked with dry heaves. The rats didn’t seem to notice or care.
Commanding himself, Kinnison twisted about and brought his hands close, awkwardly inserting the key into the lock of the manacles and turning it ever so gently. As the catch released, his arm dropped free and he bit back a scream, trembling with the effort. As the circulation was restored, the pain subsided, and he forced the shaking limb to reach up and unlock his right wrist. The click was like music, and he quickly caught the broken arm so it wouldn’t drop again. Very gently, he tucked the aching arm into his shirt, then rigged a crude sling with his own bandages. It was uncomfortable, but more important, he was free, although locked in a rat-infested cell deep underground, surrounded by traitors.
Trembling with weakness and covered in filth, Kinnison grimaced in triumph as he climbed onto the pile of straw and fumbled with the ceiling. Even in bright lantern light it appeared to be solid stone. Finally, his fingertips found the pattern of a Firebird carved into a stone, and he started to pound with his right fist. After a few minutes, the stone came loose and he reached into the hole to start removing handfuls of items: a zip-top plastic bag full of fresh white bandages, plastic film canisters of his drugs, clean clothing, candles, a tinderbox, a gourd of wine, glass jars of food and clean water. Then came the weapons: a slim dagger and a predark revolver in oiled cloth, with a full box of live rounds. His emergency supplies in case of a rebellion. This hadn’t been done with every cell in the dungeon. That would have been too dangerous. Only this special one had been kept empty of prisoners, even when he had five or six packed into the others.
Now taking his time, Lord Baron Kinnison lit the candle, the light making the rats flee back into the walls. Stripping naked, the fat man washed the filth from his body and plotted revenge as he wrapped his sores and began to dress. By the time he was rigging a new sling for the broken arm, Kinnison already had a plan to bring down Griffin and the rest of the cowardly traitors who had planned this Judas strike.
“Live forever,” Kinnison throated through his gritted teeth, tightening the sling. “No, I won’t, but I’ll live longer than you bastards. Oh, yes, I will.”
Chapter Ten
As the train of horses plodded along the mountainous trail, Ryan fought off a shiver, his coat offering little protection against the strong winds.
There had been enough horses for everybody, more in fact, but only saddles for about half and no supplies. Most of the freed sec man were in thin clothing. As the group climbed into the hills and the temperature quickly dropped, Krysty had gotten the horse blankets from under the saddles, and cut holes in the centers to make crude ponchos for the cold men. It helped, but not much. The horses were unhappy, but they didn’t have a vote in the matter.
Good thing the companions were wearing jackets, although only Krysty was actually warm in her bearskin coat. And those fingerless gloves J.B. wore were a godsend. Ryan’s own coat was too thin to be much protection against the bitter winds of the higher peaks, but it was a hell of a lot better than those ponchos. Mildred had loaned Ann some of her spare clothing, but the thin girl still looked pale and weak. Ryan wasn’t sure she could last Judas Strike much longer without a hot meal. The cholera had taken a lot out of her.
And everybody was hungry. The cannies hadn’t fed their prisoners since they had planned on eating them, and while the companions had lots of MRE food packs, they hesitated to display the predark wealth of the foil envelopes. Ryan had convinced Mitchum that the companions found their rapidfires and revolvers in the cannie armory. The lie was accepted at face value, but if they started showing MRE packs, flashlights, rad counters and such, the only possible conclusion would be that they were outlanders, and strangers got aced in these islands by order of the lord baron.
With a week’s worth of food in their backpacks, the companions rode along with Mitchum and his troops, stomachs growling, and watching the landscape for anything they could shoot for dinner, then breakfast and now lunch. Thankfully, there was lots of grass for the horses to munch on the lower hills, and plenty of snow for water. Filling a canteen only gave a few cupfuls after it melted from body heat. But it tasted pure and clean.
“Ville much farther?” Jak asked, his teeth chattering. The albino teenager had one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other holding the reins. And he switched them often. He couldn’t understand how it could be so damn cold in the tropics. But then, he’d seen a swamp turn into a desert in under a year in the Deathlands. Bastard weather was screwy across the globe.
“Mebbe by tomorrow morning we’ll see Ratak ville,” Colonel Mitchum said, tightening the belt strapped around his poncho. The wind kicked up tiny blizzards of snow and constantly dusted them with flakes. The officer filled his mind with memories of warm days on the beach, and savored what little heat came from the animal he rode.
“Ah! This reminds me of those carefree days in Moscow,” Doc said, his frock coat buttoned to the collar. “We were with a colonel then, too. Nasty fellow at first, but he turned out a decent enough chap.”
“Moscow? Where’s that?” a sec man asked, hunched under his dirty blanket. His breath fogged in the air, often hiding his unshaved face.
“It’s an island to the south of here,” Mildred lied, remembering only at the last second that the farther south you traveled in this hemisphere the colder it got. Almost said it backward. “Little place, lots of wolves.”
“Folks nice?”
“Baron was tough, but excellent shine.”
“Good enough.” Ann tried to laugh, but the sound died away in the cold breeze moaning around the craggy peaks and bare outcroppings.
“What the hell,” Dean muttered, slowing his mount and staring off to the side. There was a tiny cloud that appeared, and disappeared, near one of the snowbanks. Breathing out of the side of his mouth to see better, the boy suddenly realized the odd cloud was exactly like breath foggy from the cold. He drew his Browning semiautomatic pistol, and jacked the slide. Could be another buried cold-heart like back in the cannie camp. Should he warn the others quietly or attack?
The decision was taken away when the snowbank charged at the group with only the soft crunching of the new-fallen snow under its soft paws.
“Mutie!” Dean cried and fired, both rounds missing. Hot pipe, that sucker was fast.
The rest of the mixed group spun as the snowbank leaped on Ann, the blow shoving her off her horse. The girl hit the ground, rolling with the thing, blood spurting from deep gashes in her chest. Instantly, everybody had their blasters out, but withheld firing. The girl and mutie were so entangled it would be impossible to shoot one without hitting the other.
“Shoot it!” Ann screamed, beating at the snowy white creature with both fists. Her blanket was ripped, taking most of her clothing with it, and she pulled the big fli
ntlock from her belt and fired, the boom echoing along the crags sounding like a hundred blasters. The discharge cloud masked the two until the wind pushed it away. Shapeless white covered her neck for a moment, then went away and blood fountained into the air from severed arteries as her throat was neatly removed. She gurgled horribly, her hands at the ragged flesh of her neck, then the snow mutie moved to her belly and once more hot blood spewed.
“Ann’s dead, chill the fucker!” Ryan ordered leveling the Steyr and firing. The round missed striking the dying girl and only startled the creature.
As the companions fired a barrage of lead, the creature turned toward them and Ryan could only see a vague outline of a bestial face under the blood; the rest was only shapeless white. Good enough.
Working the bolt, he aimed between the eyes and pulled the trigger. The mutie flipped over sideways and hit the snow, green blood pumping onto the ground like a chem spill. Framed by its own blood, the thing was now an easy target. Mildred used the shotgun, tearing the carcass apart with a full charge of fléchettes. Dean got it in the face again, while Jak, Doc and Krysty aimed for the chest. Facing the opposite direction, J.B. was sweeping the wintery landscape with the Uzi for any more of the strange creatures.
Dismounting, Mitchum and Ryan slowly approached the mutie with drawn blasters, the others holding back, controlling the scared horses and reloading their assorted weapons. The strained breathing of the creature could clearly be heard, but even at ten feet away it was difficult to focus clearly on the thing. It was a blob of fuzzy white floating in green—that was all. Jacking in a fresh round, Ryan fired the longblaster at pointblank range. The creature bucked from the impact and went still. The puffing of its breath disappearing for good.
“It’s aced,” Mitchum reported, holstering his piece.
“Something local?” Ryan asked, looking over the thing.
The officer frowned. “Never saw or heard anything like it before. Must be a newbie.”
“A new mutant,” Ryan translated.
“Yeah, sure, get them all the time from the north.”
The direction of the Bikini Atoll where the American government tested all those nukes in the past. Made sense.
Sliding off her mount, Mildred passed the reins to J.B. and hurried over. The physician burned with curiosity to see the mutation closer. Moving past the men, she stepped into the blood and crouched near the body, running her hands over the cold corpse. It couldn’t have lost body heat that fast. It had to be cold-blooded, like a lizard. But then, how could it move so fast?
The body was huge and draped with gossamer-fine fur as pale as the snow. It was broad daylight, but the sun didn’t reflect off the hair filaments. The nose, even the eyes, were as pale as ice, and the entire body was draped with a fringe of the translucent fur, including the face.
“Some sort of cat, like a cougar,” Mildred said, lifting a paw for study. The claws were six inches long, as sharp as knives and a smooth dull white where they weren’t coated with blood. She opened its mouth and noted that even its gums and tongue were white, only some plaque on the lower teeth adding the smallest tinge of yellow. It was the most amazing natural camouflage she had ever seen. Made stick-bugs and chameleons pale in comparison. No way this was a result of natural selection; it was much too perfect. Designed was the word that came to mind.
“Bitch to see,” a sec man stated, squinting at the mutie. “There be snow falling, it could have easily chilled the whole group.”
“I saw its breath, but wasn’t sure until it moved,” Dean said, his expression of a mixture of serious and embarrassed. “Then it was too late.”
“Not your fault,” Ryan said, resting the stock of the Steyr on a hip.
“Strangest mutie I have ever seen,” Mitchum said, hitching his blanket closed more against the wind. “Only hope it’s traveling alone.”
Jak slid off his horse and walked closer to it. “Want see paws,” he said. “Case find tracks elsewhere.”
“Good idea,” Mildred said, and pressed a paw into the snow. Together, they scrutinized the pattern closely, logging the details of the pattern into memory.
“How odd. It’s sort of like that symbol for Forbidden Island,” Mildred whispered softly.
“Yeah,” the teenager agreed. “Not like.”
Walking her mount to the dead girl, Krysty bowed her head in prayer for a minute, then said, “We should bury Ann. But without shovels, I don’t see how.”
“Leave her for the birds,” Ryan stated, glancing at the sky. Condors were already circling the area. Blasterfire always meant food for the scavengers. Also gave away their position. The one-eyed man didn’t like that, but there was nothing he could do about birds. What could not be changed, had to be endured, as Doc liked to say.
But more important, with Ann on the last train west, it meant the companions now depended on the goodwill of Mitchum and his sec men. And Ryan didn’t like that one bit. Ann owed them her life; these folks only owed them their freedom. It wasn’t the same thing.
“This is bullshit,” a sec man grumbled, rubbing his blaster as if it were a source of warmth. The air fogged before the man, his visible breath mixing with the exhalations of the horse. “Colonel, how do we know these folks ain’t tricking us somehow. Get the ville gates open and in pour the cannies!”
“Shut up, trooper,” Mitchum snapped, glaring at the shivering man. “These are the folks who hauled us out of the stew pot. I’ll trust them with my life.”
Ryan said nothing, hoping it was true.
“Yeah?” the sec man said rudely, then pointed. “Including the freak?”
Jak looked up from studying the mutie, his snowy hair billowing in the cold wind, his red eyes and ruddy cheeks the only touches of faint color in his pale face.
“Got prob?” the teenager asked, in a dangerous tone of voice.
“Bet your ass I do! You look like the thing!” the sec men raved on. “Sir, mebbe he worships it or something.”
“A mutie? What a load of spent brass,” Mitchum shot back. “Listen up, feeb. They saved us from the cannies to feed to the mountain cats?”
“I say we should ace the freak to make sure!” the sec man shouted, grabbing the flintlock at his side to brandish the weapon in the air. “Who’s with me?”
Nobody said a word, the only movement the windblown snow and the horses shifting their legs to stay warm. The companions exchanged glances and judiciously walked their horses out of the line of fire. They could smell death coming.
“You can see he’s a stinking mutie!” the sec man shouted in argument. “By the baron’s law, we’re supposed to ace any human muties!”
Feeling her red hair flare angrily at the pronouncement, Krysty kept her features neutral, but filed that information away.
“Shut mouth,” Jak said, opening his jacket to expose the Colt Python holstered at his side. “Or go steel.”
“Think I can’t take you, freak?” the trooper said, sneering, the flintlock already in his hand.
Reaching behind his back, Jak pulled his jacket out of the way. “Any time, stupe,” he said softly, flexing his blaster hand.
“You in on this?” Mitchum asked, flicking a look at Ryan.
He shook his head. “Between them.”
“Agreed,” the colonel said. “Anybody helps this asshole gets on the wrong side of me. Natch?”
The rest of the troopers nodded in agreement and moved away from the lone gunman. Suddenly realizing he was without backup, the sec man dropped the blaster to his side, then whipped out a second pistol from inside the blanket, the hammer already cocked and ready to fire.
As the weapon swung toward Jak, the teenager drew his own piece and jerked his wrist the second it cleared the holster to shoot from the hip. The booming Magnum round hit the sec man square in the face, eyes and teeth blowing into the wind as the primed flintlock discharged, the miniball buzzing past Jak so close he felt the passage of its wind on his cheek.
The sec man topp
led from the saddle to hit the ground in a crumpled ball. Red blood puddled around the corpse, wisps of steam rising off the warm pool of life fluid.
“Nuke me.” Mitchum exhaled a held breath, creating a small fog. “Never seen speed like that. You’re good, boy, damn good.”
Jak shrugged in response, then slid his Colt Python back into its holster and zipped his jacket over the blaster to help keep it warm. There was nothing special about chilling a stupe. World was full of them, always making noise and getting in the way. They were just a minor annoyance, like skeeters or flies.
“Sir, I could use his boots,” another sec man said eagerly. Then others called out for his blasters and poncho.
“Ain’t mine to give,” Mitchum said, tilting his head toward the albino teenager. “Talk to the owner.”
“Help self. Not want any,” Jak said, climbing back on his horse.
The troopers grinned in delight and proceeded to strip the faceless corpse. Ryan was pleased. Letting them have his stuff was another point in favor of the companions. Besides, it was painfully obvious that nobody had liked the dead man very much, or seemed to mourn his passing.
“It has occurred to me,” Doc said in his deep voice, “that such a creation as this should naturally be antithetic to heat. If we traveled with some torches, the flames should hold off any more of its kind.”
“Most animals hate fire,” Dean agreed.
“Except stickies,” J.B. added, leaning forward. “But it’s a damn good idea. I still got some juice left.”
“What’ll we burn?” Mitchum asked, hugging his blanket tighter. There was nothing in sight but a few bare trees, icy rocks and snow in every direction.
Crunching through the ankle-deep snow, Ryan went to Ann and started cutting away her clothing. Dean rode off to get some branches from a tree with Krysty and Jak on his flanks for protection. Until they had the torches, nobody was going anywhere alone.