Shadow Fortress

by James Axler

  “Dynamite,” Ryan said between clenched teeth. “Nuke-shitting hell, that’s got to be four or five tons!”

  Lifting a leg, the Armorer awkwardly untied his left boot and slid his foot out, then did the same with the other.

  “Remove your boots and walk to the stairs in your socks,” he ordered in a whisper. “Make no sudden moves, and for fuck’s sake don’t drop anything. Take whatever you’re holding. Nothing more.”

  “But the ammo…” Mildred began.

  “Leave it,” Ryan said, tying his boot laces together and slinging them around his neck to keep his hands free. “That old dynamite is sweating pure nitro. We got to go, and fast.”

  “Come again?” Dean asked.

  J.B. felt a trickle of sweat run down his face as he moved for the door to the stairwell. “Dynamite was just nitro in some sort of inert packing—fuller’s earth, sawdust, anything would do. But over time, the nitro can seep through the waxy covering of the sticks and ooze on the outside in droplets.”

  There came a crackle of tiny explosions from the ground of the elevator.

  “And then it explodes whenever,” the boy said hoarsely, suddenly understanding.

  “Damn straight. Why the fuck it didn’t detonate when I yanked open the door, I have no idea. But if it goes off now, there wouldn’t be enough left of this armory to stuff into a spent brass round.”

  Gently placing her sock-clad feet on the terrazzo floor, Mildred stared at the stack of crates on the pallet. “Anything we can do?” she asked, licking dry lips.

  “Leave,” J.B. said, tiptoeing toward the exit. “And then run for our lives. That elevator is a bomb just itching to go off.”

  Easing out of their boots, the rest of the companions started slowly creeping toward the stairwell. Making a small detour around a crate, Dean reached out to snag the shoulder strap of the Armbrust rocket, then kept moving.

  Turning off the preburner of his weapon, Ryan scowled at the action and promised he would have a stern talk with the boy about obeying orders in emergencies.

  Crossing the few yards to the stairs seemed to take forever, every retarded motion excruciatingly slow. But finally they were inside the stairs, their socks patting on the hard steps as the men and women ascended at glacial speed. Finally reaching the ground floor, they risked moving faster and dashed across the damp floors, the yellowish moisture stinging their feet through the Army socks.

  “Landing dock is closer,” Mildred suggested.

  “Fuck that. We’d have to jump to the ground,” Ryan said harshly. “Use the stairs.”

  Easing out the back door, they quickly traversed the stairs and through the gate in the fence to finally reach the parking lot. Not wasting a moment with their boots, the companions dashed around the building in their stocking feet and raced straight for the bikes pell-mell.

  Standing near the collection of motorcycles, Doc arched an eyebrow at the companions’ unusual appearance.

  “Salutations all!” he rumbled with a smile, then noticed the stern expressions on their faces. In remarkable speed, the old man was on his bike with the engine running, as the others arrived.

  “Droids?” Doc asked, revving the engine.

  “Sweaty dyno,” J.B. said, climbing onto his bike. “Tons of it.”

  “Saints preserve us,” the old man muttered, as Jak climbed on behind him.

  Rolling to the gate, Ryan slashed the rope holding it closed with his knife and the iron grille swung away to crash into the brick wall. The companions flinched at the noise, but when nothing happened, they rolled the bikes onto the street and drove toward the on ramp of the bypass.

  “A little distance more and we’ll be safe,” Ryan said over the purring motor.

  “Sure hate to leave those blasters,” Krysty griped, maneuvering around the maze of potholes. “But we had no choice.”

  “None,” J.B. said, watching the ruins. Things darted about in the shadows, but none dared to emerge and challenge the norms on the street.

  The entrance ramp proved to be clear of wrecked cars, and the motorcycles zoomed up the sloped concrete to the bypass without any trouble. Soon, the companions were streaking away at their best speed, the purrs of the engines rising to throaty growls.

  “Gate open,” Jak said. “Muties recce warehouse.”

  “Let them,” Ryan snapped, leaning into a turn. “The blast’ll only attract more muties and give us some breathing room.”

  Bright light flashed behind the companions, and a rumbling roar grew to staggering proportions, then faded away. Seconds later smoking debris rained from the sky. A burning tire hit the roadway directly in front of the companions and rolled along with the bikes for a few yards before veering away and disappearing over the side of the elevated bypass.

  “Now let’s go find that gateway,” Krysty shouted, her Army-issue socks pressed tight to the checkered rider pegs. The woman tried not to think what would happen if her unprotected foot slipped and brushed against the rushing surface of the roadway. “And get the hell off this island!”

  Black hair streaming in the wind, Ryan shot her a look. “Agreed,” he muttered, sagging a little in his seat from the array of weaponry strapped across his body. “We’ll stop in a couple of miles, and look for a place to stop and check over our weapons.”

  “And boots,” Jak added, shifting his bare feet on the floorboard of the fancy Harley.

  “What about the spider?” Dean asked, the tube of the Armbrust rocket sticking over his shoulder like a samurai sword.

  Keeping a tight grip on the handlebars, Ryan pumped the throttle. “Since we know where the bug is, we’ll take the off-ramp just before its web,” he said. “Then get back on the bypass after we go underneath.”

  “Sounds good,” the boy agreed.

  “And if not,” J.B. added grimly, “we got the blasters to chill a dozen of the big muties.”

  “If these junkyard weapons work,” Mildred stated, leaning over the handlebars as if urging the machine on to greater speed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  All of her eight legs dancing nimbly, she turned to inspect the new trap.

  It was perfect. A few inches off the ground was a sturdy line of her best silk that stretched across the flat river of black stone. When the two-legs came back riding their not-alive animals over the line, they would fall down and get very hurt. Maybe even break the not-animals and make the two-legs drop their thunder sticks. That would make them completely helpless. The tiny killers had great speed, but no agility.

  Then she would swing up from under the strip of land that did not touch the ground and pounce on them in surprise. The giant female had never done such a thing before, but her ancient instincts said the trick always worked. Soon it would have the two-legs wrapped tightly in cocoons, stored food for the children when they were born. Except for the little twoleg that threw the orange beast that damaged the web. That one she could plant her eggs into, and let the infants consume the two-leg alive when they were born.

  Placing her legs with care, the giant spider walked over the edge of black stone river and swung underneath. Settling comfortably into place, she locked her legs into position and settled in for the hunting sleep where she would rest, but not dream. Always ready to instantly attack in any direction. It was the greatest talent of her race—infinite patience mixed with ruthless cruelty.

  Time passed—how much was impossible to say—then a soft purring sounded from below her. The spider snapped open her segmented eyes and stared at the tiny two-legs racing away below her on their not-animals. They had detoured around the trap! Impossible! Intolerable!

  Without pause, she squeezed out a thick strand of silky material from her spinnerets and released the hold of her legs on the sky-river. The strand held her weight as it should, and she descended toward the two-legs as fast as possible. A short distance from the ground, she released the spinnerets and fell the rest of the way, her tremendous weight easily balanced on her eight strong legs.


  But the two-legs were already ahead of her, the not-animals moving at an unbelievable speed. She roared in anger, but the noise didn’t make this food freeze in terror as it did the jungle cats and four-arms. Some of the two-legs looked backward at her and made banging sounds, tiny pinpricks of pain stabbing into her chest.

  Staying level, she charged at the defiant food, her flashing limbs carrying her easily over the broken ground and oddly shaped stone eggshells. She roared again and snapped her mandibles, feeling her heart pound as the blood beat quicker through every vein. To chase and kill! This was the greatest pleasure!

  But the not-animals were too fast, and she angrily slowed as they purred up the sloped stone to the sky-river of black stone disappearing from view. Raging fury formed in her mind, and she hissed long and loud at the escape. Twice! Nothing had ever gotten away twice before! A blinding rage to kill flooded her mind, and she raised quivering antennae high to begin stroking the air. Mixed into the thousands of smells around her nest, there was the strong reek of the not-animals lying in a stream along the ground.

  Checking to make sure her egg sacks were strongly attached to her abdomen, she dashed forward at killing speed to follow the invisible river of odors, knowing that eventually it would lead her to the defiant food. Time didn’t matter. She could sit in a trap forever, or chase a prey for even longer. Soon enough, she would drink their blood, saving the withered flesh for the precious eggs.

  “THINK IT’LL COME after us?” Dean asked, glancing over a shoulder as they rolled along the bypass.

  Keeping a tight grip on the handlebars, Ryan shrugged in reply. His engine was still running a little hot, but that shouldn’t be a problem now that it had had a long rest.

  “At least it can’t camou like that big bastard in New Mexico,” J.B. said with a frown.

  “How’s the fuel?” Ryan asked, tapping the gauge. He wasn’t overly worried about discovering that this spider could perfectly copy anything it was near and disappear. The creature fought at White Sands was a different kind of mutie from this hairy brute.

  Krysty looked down. “About half a tank,” she replied.

  “Same here,” Mildred answered, swerving to avoid a pothole. Every bounce made her collection of bags and blasters slam into her. The physician knew she had to be covered with bruises by now.

  “Less,” Doc said. “But then we are carrying a double load.”

  After checking the rearview mirror, Ryan studied the city on either side of the elevated roadway. There were mostly homes and strip malls below, the monoliths of the downtown skyscrapers miles distant. Nothing clearly dangerous was in sight, and his sweaty feet were constantly slipping off the floor-boards. Time for a break.

  “Let’s find someplace to stop and refuel,” Ryan ordered, carefully maintaining a steady course on the bike. Any sudden move on his part made the fuel in the flamethrower tanks slosh about, the weight shift threatening to topple the bike.

  “Rest stop up ahead!” Krysty said.

  “That’ll do. Follow me in,” Ryan commanded, gently slowing the motorcycle.

  Blank signs announced the turnoff lane, and the companions rolled along the macadam strip into the rest area. With weapons in hand, they stayed on the vibrating bikes and closely scrutinized the vicinity. Bisected by the access road, the rest area was a half circle of forested land, packed with an untamed bramble of wild trees and thorny bushes. The public wash-room was a sagging ruin of bricks and exposed pipes, with birds nesting in the exposed stalls. However, there was plenty of open area around the cracked parking lot. Nothing could come close without their seeing it in plenty of time to react.

  “Seems clear,” Krysty said, turning off the bike and listening as the engine went still.

  Turning off their motorcycles, the rest of the companions stood and gratefully stretched their backs. On a horse, the strain was in the thighs; on a bike, it was the lower back that got stiff.

  Dropping their packs, longblasters and bags, the friends tossed away their filthy socks and pulled on fresh dry pairs taken from the department store, then pulled on their boots.

  “Better,” Jak grunted, stomping the ground. The teenager had been wary of making a sharp turn on the bike, afraid he would stick out a leg to brace himself and lose a foot. First lesson he ever received in riding a predark bike was that the road hated riders and wanted to chill them every chance it got. After a few mishaps, the youth soon learned that was sage advice.

  Arranging the mixed collection of weaponry on the ground, the companions distributed the blasters and ammo evenly. J.B. stuffed his M-16/M-203 into the gun boot lashed to the frame of his motorcycle, keeping his regular weapons about him, the LAW rocket launcher sticking out of the saddlebags. Since it was almost out of rounds, Mildred put the Thompson into her bike’s boot and draped the M-16 combo over the handlebars. The physician preferred the accuracy of her ZKR over the spray-and-pray firepower of rapidfires. Slinging the M-16/M-203 over a shoulder, Krysty then shifted her revolver to the middle of her belt for easy access. Doc did the same with his weapon, the LeMat holstered at his hip, the Webley jutting from his belt.

  “Behold, and tremble in fear,” Doc rumbled, adjusting his numerous blasters, “at the modern Gilgamesh.”

  Switching positions, Jak took the driver’s position on the Harley so that he could put his assault rifle into the gun boot, the slim Armbrust hung across the back of his jacket. He was unfamiliar with the stealth projectile launcher, but the instructions were printed on top and the operation was fairly simple.

  “We got plenty of ammo, but save the 40 mm grens for the droids,” J.B. instructed, filling a pocket with 12-gauge shells for the M-4000. The bent shotguns in the trash had been fully loaded, and he managed to salvage all of the cartridges.

  “Better keep the Weatherby handy, son,” Ryan suggested, tucking the Steyr into the gun boot. “We got enough firepower with the M-16s. Could use some decent penetration.”

  “Gotcha,” Dean replied, packing the M-16 combo into the saddlebags strapped over the rear fender, along with their extra food and spare ammo. The plastic stock stuck almost straight up alongside the roll bar.

  “Pressure is good,” Ryan said, checking the dials and igniting the preburner in the vented muzzle.

  “You sure that thing will work?” Mildred asked, making room in her med kit for the one spare clip for her M-16. The single 40 mm round was already in the M-203 launcher, primed and ready to fire.

  “Time to find out,” Ryan said, hefting the weapon and walking away from the others. “Stay clear in case she blows.”

  “Got you covered,” J.B. said, raised a small C02 fire extinguisher from the Harley’s repair kit.

  Bracing for the expected recoil, Ryan triggered the spray. The weapon bucked in his grip, sending a fiery lance of burning chems thirty feet down the old pavement.

  After a full count of three seconds, Ryan released the trigger and closely watched as the flame collapsed, then checked the dials. Pressure was good, no blockage in the jets, an even dispersal.

  “Trigger sticks,” he said, resting the hot barrel on a shoulder. “But other than that, works fine.”

  Placing away her own C02 extinguisher, Krysty walked to a railing, her cowboy boots crunching on the loose gravel.

  “Food, ammo, fuel,” she said, looking out over the expanse of the predark metropolis. An acrid breeze from the distant volcanoes ruffled her long crimson hair, the filaments recoiling from the traces of sulfur in the wind.

  “Now we just have to find the gateway,” she finished grimly.

  “Gonna be tough,” J.B. agreed, extending his Navy telescope and studying the tall buildings on the jagged horizon. The gateway could be hidden anywhere in the city. The basement of a store, a second-story bedroom, inside a bank vault. Anywhere.

  “Needle in fucking haystack,” Jak grunted, thumbing fresh rounds into his Colt Python. The Ruger was packed into the saddlebags, where it was going to stay. Having too many weapons, was almost as
dangerous as having not enough. Almost.

  “Indeed, my young friend, what we ardently need is a native guide,” Doc stated, standing on the berm, pressing loose rounds into an empty clip for the M-16. When finished, he slipped the mag into the receiver and worked the bolt. “But where can we locate a Chingachgook for us to play Hawkeye?”

  “Are you sure it was science and philosophy you taught,” Mildred demanded in irritation, “and not classic literature?”

  “Quite definite, madam,” Doc replied. “But there is no more noble a pursuit for both heart and mind than spending time with a book.”

  “Fireblast, we have a guide!” Ryan said suddenly, returning to the group of bikes. “We’re looking for a gateway, and there’s sec droids in the city.”

  “They’re the guards,” J.B. realized aloud. “Shit-fire, that’s got to be right. Why else would they be here?”

  As she turned away from the cityscape, a smile crept onto Krysty’s face. “You’re going to use the droids,” she said, “to find the gateway.”

  “Tell me a better plan,” Ryan asked, turning off the preburner. The tiny blue propane flame winked out immediately.

  Removing his glasses, J.B. polished off the bugs dotting the lenses. “Wish I could,” he said, sliding the frames back on his face. “Sure as hell don’t want to drive along every street and look in each building. That’d take months, years mebbe.”

  “A robotic stalking goat,” Mildred muttered, tucking a lock of beaded hair behind an ear. “Could just work.”

  “Count on it.” Briefly, Ryan cast a glance at the clouds overhead. The descending sun filled the fiery clouds with a profusion of colored lights, the sheet lightning slashing tortured rainbows across the polluted sky.

  “Let’s get moving,” he said, climbing onto his Harley. “There’s still a couple hours of daylight left. That can work in our favor.”

  “Going to the department store,” Dean stated confidently, getting on the saddle behind his father.