Chapter Twenty-Five
Jak peered around the bend in the downhill road, squinting his ruby-red eyes to slits as he listened hard for the sound of pursuit. All he could hear was the rasp of his own breath in his throat. The oppressive and airless stillness of the deep forest pressed against the sides of his head; it felt as if his ears were plugged up with cotton. The albino shifted the Colt Python to his left hand and wiped the sweat on his right palm on his pants leg. His mission wasn't to fight a rearguard, delaying action, but to verify that the carny chillers had abandoned their wags and come after them on foot. And to try to get a head count if he could.
Jak had been the natural choice for the job because he was the fastest runner of the companions. But he was as slow as molasses compared to the lion, who sat on his back legs on the road beside him, its huge head cocked, its round ears upright and at full attention.
They are coming, Little Brother, the big cat said without making a sound, the words appearing in Jak's mind.
Knew would be, Jak thought back. How many?
Fourteen pairs of feet.
That all? We seven, eight with you…
I cannot help you fight them.
Jak was astonished by this revelation.
Only men with blasters, he thought. You stronger. You faster. Is it this place? Bad place?
It has nothing to do with them, or with these woods. It is what's coming, what waits for you all over the mountaintop.
The lion gently placed its huge paw on his shoulder. Little Brother, I am not afraid. I just know how it ends, and I know I have no part in it.
How know? How can know if hasn't happened yet?
Time as we know it is an illusion. It's an artifact of the physical forms we currently inhabit, of their hardwiring, if you want to look at it that way. The truth is, everything that has ever happened, that ever will happen, is always happening. All of history takes place in the same endless instant. There is no past, no present, no future.
If can see it, tell what happens.
I cannot tell you.
I live? You live?
It doesn't matter. Don't you understand? Nothing ever dies, Little Brother.
Wife Christina, baby? Jak thought at once, a great lump rising in his throat.
They are with you, and with me.
The albino shook his head, grimacing. They weren't. If he knew anything, he knew that much. He had buried them with his own hands.
Not understand.
But you will, Little Brother. Listen. They are close now.
A second later, Jak heard footsteps crunching on road. Many men were running uphill in a skirmish line.
We go, Jak thought as he holstered his handblaster. He ran soundlessly up the road, sprinting on his toes and high kicking. The lion loped easily along a few steps behind.
When Jak rounded a turn and glanced back over his shoulder, the great cat was gone. Simply gone.
There was no crashing noise as it plunged deep into the tangle of deadfall.
No twinkling dust trail spiraling up into the slanting rays of sunlight that pierced the forest canopy.
No goodbye.
"IT'S JAK," Dean called softly to his father's back.
Ryan stopped jogging and turned in the middle of the road, as did the others, watching as the albino raced up to him, out of breath. The lion was nowhere to be seen.
The one-eyed man said nothing about the lion; he had other, much more important questions. He listened, grim faced, to the answers Jak gave. They were pretty much what he had expected. The carny chillers were still pursuing them. They were on foot and about a quarter of a mile behind. There were as many as fourteen in the band.
Ryan had three choices, as he saw things. The first was to lead the companions over the mountain at top speed and keep on running, figuring that the coldhearts would eventually wear down and abandon the chase. That outcome was something he knew he couldn't count on, especially with the Magus giving the orders. There was also the problem of his not knowing the terrain; with a full-out run there'd be no time for recce, and he could get his people boxed in.
Permanently.
His second choice was to find the highest ground and spread his force out to defend it. This would work, he knew, but only if they had enough ammo to do the job, and enough time to reach the peak. Ryan couldn't tell how far off the summit was because of the densely packed trees. It was possible that the pursuit could overrun them before they reached it.
His last option was to locate a suitable place for an ambush and bushwhack the murdering bastards as they came up the road. That seemed the best course of action to him. At the very least, it would reduce the number of the opposition, and the massed fire might scatter, or even turn the rest back. There was also the possibility that the companions might nail them all—the odds were only two to one. It also gave him the choice of the chilling ground, which was a big plus as far as he was concerned.
"Okay, let's move," he said, waving the others up the road after him.
They jogged in a single file along the steeply angled track, which wound back and forth through the clustered trunks. There was dust underfoot, and there was stifling heat, but there were no signs of life other than the trees. Here and there, shafts of light speared through breaks in the canopy of branches, spotlighting the blue-gray, bone-dry litter of fallen needles and limbs.
As he trotted up the road, despite the suffocating heat, a chill passed down Ryan's spine, and he felt a sudden tension at the back of his head, as if the skin had drawn drum tight. It was the same feeling he had experienced when they uncovered the death pit in the nameless ville.
In the grim, eerie forest, he sensed the presence of the dead. Multitudes of the dead, swarming around him.
With an effort he shook off the sensation. He had more than enough flesh-and-blood trouble on his plate without worrying about legions of ghosts. J.B. ran behind him, straining to pull along the roped Doc. After Doc came Dean and Leeloo, then Mildred and Krysty. Jak brought up the rear. Ryan dropped back to jog alongside the Armorer.
"Got to quickly find us a place to chop down these bastards," Ryan said in a low voice to J.B.
"Anyplace along here will do," he replied as they rounded a right-hand bend that led to a long, dark, uphill straightaway. "Split up on either side of the road. Sandwich 'em."
Ryan held up his hand, signaling for the column to stop. "This looks like a good spot for an ambush," he told them. "We let 'em get to the straight part, then cross fire them from behind. If we work fast, we can keep them from getting to cover in the trees."
"They'll be tracking us, for sure," J.B. said. He pointed at the jumbled footprints in the soft dirt of the road.
"By the time they figure out we've doubled back on them," Ryan said, "they'll be caught in the kill-zone."
He then split up the companions, sending Dean, Leeloo, Mildred and Krysty to the left side of the road. He led Jak, J.B., and Doc to the right, into the stand of trees on the inside of the bend.
He didn't have to tell any of them to make their shots count.
Underfoot, the dry twigs and branches snapped and crackled. Puffs of talc-fine dust rose like smoke into the shafts of light.
From the other side of the road came a tiny squeak of a smothered sneeze.
Leeloo, Ryan thought as he watched Jak and J.B. slide belly down in the litter beside the dark trunks. The Armorer made Doc lie down beside him, then followed Jak's example and pulled some of the crumbling forest litter over them both, creating a double wide hide.
Before burrowing into the deadfall himself, Ryan carefully placed the Steyr longblaster behind a tree. The range was going to be too close to use it, and the bolt action was way too slow for the shootout he envisioned. The idea was to keep the chillers from reaching cover, and that meant cyclic rate. He dropped the SIG's magazine into his palm, making sure it was topped off. Then he set out a second and a third full mag in front of him, hoping to hell he wouldn't have to reach for them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
As he trotted up the road, the Magnificent Crecca carried his .223-caliber assault rifle by its plastic pistol grip, with his trigger finger braced outside the trigger guard, just behind the thick curve of the 30-round magazine. The rifle's fire selector switch was on full auto. The carny master was ready to whip-saw with hot lead anything that moved among the seemingly endless ranks of tree trunks.
Nothing moved on either side of him, nor on the road ahead.
Not yet, anyway.
Even after his eyes had become adjusted to the darkness of the forest, the road before him was dim. Fifty feet ahead, it blended in with the dismal shadows. There were a few bright patches where sunlight penetrated the branches, but they actually made things worse. They made the surrounding shade seem even darker, more impenetrable.
That's why he had brought Jackson along. What the little stickie couldn't see, it could sniff out.
Because Crecca had been concerned about Jackson's breaking free and running off to hunt solo, he had reeled in all but five feet of the leash, keeping the mutie on a short lead. He kept the rest of the chain coiled in reserve. He could pay it out if the creature made a sudden lunge, taking the strain off the leash, but still keep the stickie under control.
Sensing the excitement of his trainer and the impending bloodshed, Jackson was no longer the singing, dancing puppet that so fascinated the hicks and hayseeds. Under conditions of the hunt, the real Jackson, the pure stickie, bubbled to the surface. The raw chiller instinct that could never be beaten away.
Eyes bulging, whipcord muscles straining, needle teeth bared, it was a perfect example of a stickie on the prowl, a thing that drops from a tree limb into your path with sucker tipped fingers reaching for your face; a thing that crawls through the half-open cabin window and makes soft kissing sounds under your bed before it crawls in with you, who are too scared to move or cry out.
If either of the prevailing legends was true, if the Magus had constructed the stickies using predark whitecoat technology, tinkering with the minute components of human sperm and egg, or had simply snatched a few breeding pairs from the future, then he had peopled— monstered was a better word—the nightmares of every Deathlands child.
As the carny master and Jackson rounded a turn, the stickie made a sudden surge forward. It dropped onto all fours and scrabbled madly at the dirt, trying to break free, straining at the chain. The prey was close. Very close. Despite the pronged choke collar, it was hard for Crecca to hold the stickie back with his left hand. To get Jackson's full attention and cooperation, Crecca had to forcefully apply the butt of the M-16.
Twice.
He then drew his men together on the right side of the road. They were all breathing hard and dripping with sweat from the heat and the uphill run. They weren't scared; Crecca could see that. These were hard-eyed, hard-bitten, longtime professional chillers. They had willingly dug mass graves, administered mercy bullets to the survivors of the poison tent and robbed the huts of the still warm dead. They'd gotten all pumped up for the big chilling at Bullard, but had been denied their fun and their spoils. Like Crecca, they had lost everything in the debacle. Not just gear and livelihood, but friends and lovers, too. And the blame for all of it could be laid at the feet of Ryan Cawdor and his pals.
The rousties wanted payback. As did he.
Crecca spoke in a hushed whisper, so softly that the chillers had to huddle around him to hear. "From the way the stickie's acting," he said, "looks like Cawdor and company are waiting for us up around the next bend. They've probably got both sides of the road covered, expecting us to walk into their sights. Not gonna happen that way, though."
The carny master drew a rough sketch in the dirt with a fingertip. It showed the right-hand turn in the road that they could see the start of from where they stood. He pointed at the three best shots of his crew. Each had a high capacity, semiauto handblaster. "I want you to sneak up to the edge of the bend on this side of the road," he said, pointing at his sketch. "Don't show yourselves until you hear the first shots. Then move out around the curve and nail anyone running down the road." He tapped the point of the curve. "From this spot," he said, "you've got control of the KZ. If no one breaks and runs, locate the shooters in the cover on the left side. For sure, they'll be potshotting at us from across the road. Pin 'em down and chill 'em."
Crecca waved for the other men to huddle even closer. "The rest of us are going to work our way through the brush and get behind the shooters on the right. It's going to be tough for us to move quietly through all the fallen branches. Go slow and watch your step until we're in position. When I give the attack signal, we'll charge them from the rear—the more noise we make the better, and either we kill the bastards outright or drive them onto to the road, where they can be picked off easy by our sharpshooters."
As Crecca straightened, Jackson let out a soft whine. The mutie was quivering, head to foot, with excitement. That wouldn't do. Not at all. The carny master showed the stickie the rifle butt.
Jackson immediately dropped to its back in the dirt and offered its trainer its soft underbelly.
"That's better," Crecca said. He unclipped the chain from the choke collar and pointed at his heel.
The little stickie meekly obeyed.
Crecca shouldered his M-16, then stepped off the road and into the trees. The thick, rough barked trunks were unevenly spaced. Some grew only inches apart while others were a double arm's length from their closest neighbor. Blocked from sunlight, most of the lower branches had withered and fallen off. Around the base of each tree was a ring of rotting debris: a rat's nest of dusty needles, twigs and small and large limbs. Some of these brush piles stood as high as Crecca's waist.
By staying as close as possible to the trunks, he avoided most of the tinder-dry material. He was forced to advance at a snail's pace, watching the placement of each step, occasionally toeing a rotted branch out of the way when he couldn't safely see past it.
The nine carny chillers moved in a widely spaced line behind him. They followed his trail exactly, keeping close to the tree trunks, stepping in his steps. Because they were pros at both chilling and stalking, they made only the slightest rustling noise as they advanced; Crecca could hardly hear it over the thudding of his own pulse in his ears.
The carny master couldn't see the road because of the wall of trees, but he knew that he had to be close to it—no more than thirty or forty feet away. He also knew that he had to be just about on top of Cawdor and the other ambushers…if they were really there.
As Crecca paused for a moment, his back pressed to a tree trunk, Jackson started acting nervous. The stickie wasn't whimpering or mewling; it was making the softest of soft kissing sounds while gazing warily at the butt of the M-16. The expression on the little stickie's face said it was trying hard to keep quiet but couldn't.
Cawdor was near, all right.
Crecca turned around the trunk, holding the assault rifle at hip height, his finger inside the trigger guard, lightly resting on the trigger. As he brought down his right foot, something unseen crunched under his heel. With the weapon poised, he froze, scanning the row of trees in the gloom directly ahead. He saw nothing, and was about to make another jump forward when, not ten feet away, leaning against the base of a tree, he caught the shape of the scoped Steyr longblaster.
A hair-raising jolt of adrenaline coursed through his veins.
As Crecca opened his mouth, before he could get out a warning shout, a hand appeared from under the pile of debris, grabbed the sling and snatched the rifle away.
RYAN LAY BURROWED under a brush pile of his own making, with a peekaboo view of the empty road. From his position, he couldn't see Krysty or any of the others on the opposite side. The heat under the debris was sweltering. Beads of sweat ran down his spine and trickled in rivulets over the sides of his rib cage. Dust mixed with body oils and perspiration had turned the backs of his hands ash-gray.
Ever since he and the
others had taken cover, he had been counting the elapsed time in his head. He had figured it would take the chillers mebbe four minutes to close the quarter-mile gap if they were moving at a quick pace. And under the circumstances he couldn't see them doing anything but double time to catch up. At that rate, they should have been in his sights more than two minutes ago. With every second that passed, his concern grew.
It wasn't a sudden noise that first alerted him to the danger they were in. It was an awareness. A vague presence. A pressure. From behind. He had been counting on the dry deadfall to give them plenty of advance warning of an enemy approach from the rear. Listening hard, he could hear the rustle of branches not twenty feet away. The enemy was closing in, and there had been no alarm. He picked up a twig and flicked it at J.B. to get his attention. The Armorer immediately reached over and nudged Jak, who turned to look Ryan's way. Doc looked at him, too, but his eyes were unfocused.
Ryan jerked a thumb toward the woods behind them. The gesture was urgent and emphatic. And to the companions the meaning was obvious.
They'd been foxed.
J.B.'s jaw dropped in disbelief, but he recovered at once, grimacing as he thumbed his wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Ryan pointed across the road, toward Krysty and Mildred's position. J.B. and Jak nodded in agreement. The ambush was scrapped. They had to rejoin their forces, and quickly.
Ryan gathered up his extra mags and tucked them inside his waistband. As he started to reach back to grab the Steyr, a branch cracked ten feet away. No way was he going to leave his precious sniper rifle behind. He caught hold of the longblaster by its shoulder sling and jerked it away from the tree, using his momentum to roll up onto his knees.
A fraction of a second later someone shouted, "Get 'em!" Then all the chillers were yelling as they crashed through the brush. Ryan brought up the SIG. He couldn't make out any targets, but as gunshots barked and bullets thudded into the trunks all around him, he returned fire, spraying a line of 9 mm death in front of him at waist height.
Axler, James - Deathlands 62 - Damnation Road Show Page 17