by James Axler
Reaching a ditch opposite the garage, they slid in and splashed quietly through the brackish runoff water, which reeked of sulfur. Using the mirror first, then chancing a direct look, they could see the Hummer parked amid the cold ashes and burned timbers of the building. The wag was a lot more battered than when they had last seen it; the sides scraped, the radio antenna gone, with the spare tire flat and hanging loose on the rim bolted to the chassis.
Ryan pointed left and right. The others spread out and approached the garage from converging directions. At the doorway, they took positions, listening for sounds, then charged in with blasters at the ready. Jak took the grease pit, Krysty the office, Ryan the tool room. The garage was completely deserted.
Chewing steadily, Jak went under the chassis of the wag, while Krysty stood guard and Ryan circled the wag, looking for trip wires. In the cargo area, he found the longblasters from the pawnshop, but the med kit and the big M-60 were nowhere in sight, which was expected. Those items were the most valuable.
In a few moments, Jak came back out. "Clean. You?"
"Same," Ryan reported gruffly. "The thief just took what he could carry and left. Probably planning on coming back and getting the rest. We can't wait for that. Could be days before he returns."
"How did he start it?" Krysty asked. "Ah, took the radio fuse and inserted it into the ignition. That was stupe."
"Yeah, might have shorted out the engine and blown the whole electrical system," Ryan countered. "It's what you do in an emergency situation."
"Mebbe was for him," Jak suggested pensively.
Sliding in the proper fuse, Ryan hit the ignition and checked the gauges on the dashboard. "At least we know why he abandoned it here. She's out of gas."
Krysty gratefully slid off her backpack, the contents sloshing as it hit the ground. "We got that covered. Doc was smart to hide the extra fuel in the lav."
She refueled the wag, as the others kept guard, watching the shop and the steel girders above them for suspicious movement. Some yellow papers blew among the wreckage, then lifted away on a breeze into the sky.
"Done," the redhead said, capping the container and placing it in the rear with the rifles.
"Drive?" Jak asked.
"We're too close to the river," Ryan said. "May as well leave the wag here out of sight of the sec men on the wall. Krysty, take all of the fuses and let's do a perimeter sweep for footprints."
Sure enough, only a few yards away they located tracks marked with black soot from the burned-out school. Following the footprints across a football field and through a dry creekbed, they reached the edge of the river. The clouds overhead were a vile green, slashed with fiery orange. If a storm was coming, it was going to be hell on Earth, and that made them move faster.
Reaching the concrete dockyards, they noted that the sluggish river from yesterday was now churning madly, whitecaps crashing on the embankments as the water rushed into the east.
"Scuffle, no, slipped," Jak corrected, scrutinizing the stony concrete. "Check water."
Krysty leaned over the edge. "No sign of a… Wait, there's the M-60! Oh crap, the barrel's bent. Must have hit something on the way down."
"Useless," Jak agreed, scanning the river. "No sign kit. Must kept."
Feeling the pressure on him, Ryan glanced east and west along the river, both directions equally barren of tracks. Every second made the thief farther away, and increased the risk for Dean. Fast decisions and fast action were called for. And if he had to gamble, so be it. This close to the ville, the logical place to look was the tunnel. Maybe he was a refugee, or a guard. The med kit could be only a hundred yards away in the hands of the sec men, pawing through the instruments wondering what they were.
"Let's go," Ryan said, heading toward the east.
Following the embankment, they reached the concrete apron that capped the top of the tunnel they had observed the previous day. Long ago, a fence of some kind had skirted the apron to keep the curious from going over the side. But nowadays there were only a few gutted metal posts to show where the safety barrier had once stood.
Crawling on hands and knees to reduce their exposure, the companions started to creep across the apron when Krysty paused and snapped her fingers for attention. She jerked her head to the left, and they followed her toward a low rise in the concrete.
An iron grille covered a hole in the concrete. On the other side was a pipe with a ladder going down and out of sight. But more importantly, off to the side, a smudged footprint was cut in two by the grating. Ryan touched it with a fingertip, and the ash came off easily.
"Ha," Jak whispered in triumph.
Looking it over closely, Ryan couldn't see an exterior locking mechanism, or even hinges. Sliding the sling of his rifle over a shoulder, Ryan braced himself and tried to lift the grating, but it refused to budge. Krysty and Jak joined him at the task, and the trio put their backs into it. But the grille didn't move an inch. The companions backed off a few yards.
"That's where he went," Ryan said bitterly. "But without explosives we're not getting in. Either it weighs a ton, or else there's some trick to holding it in place. Magnetic seal, mebbe. Or hydraulics."
"Six inches of thick metal, I'm not sure even a gren would do the trick," Krysty countered. "Plas-ex, sure. But J.B. has all of that."
Ryan frowned. "Didn't think we'd need any on a hunt."
"Window no good," Jak said, jerking a thumb. "Use front door."
After a minute, Ryan nodded his agreement. There didn't seem to be any other way into the tunnel without alerting the whole ville to their presence. The thief had effectively blocked any possible pursuit from this direction.
Going to their bellies, the companions crawled forward over the predark concrete, the rough material scratching at their clothes and scraping exposed skin. They stopped at the edge when voices could be heard, men complaining about eating vegetables and some bitch named Patrica. Gently putting down his rifle, Ryan unearthed the plastic mirror and looked around, then withdrew.
"Same as yesterday," he mouthed. "Two guards armed with muzzle-loading longblasters, one with a handblaster on his belt. Searchlights on either side behind a sandbag wall. No sign of the med kit."
Krysty looked at the low buildings nearby, and discounted them. The thief couldn't live that close to the ville and stay hidden for very long. And he headed straight here, so the med kit was in the ville somewhere. Probably in the hands of the baron by now, or whoever ruled the place. They knew nothing of what was on the other side of the wall.
"If they don't have it," Krysty whispered, "then where did the thief go?"
"Let's ask," Jak suggested, drawing a gren from a pocket, a predark pineapple from WWII. The color coding showed it was a concussion grenade, used for distractions and evasions. Useless for battle, as the kill range was less than a yard, it was perfect for taking prisoners.
"Might lose one," the Cajun said callously, wiggling the pin free. "Mebbe two, but only need one."
Considering the matter, Ryan reluctantly vetoed the idea. "Still too damn noisy. If there are more guards inside the tunnel, we'll have a major fight, with reinforcements coming from the ville. We have got to be quiet."
"I say jump them," Krysty said, drawing a sleek stiletto from her boot. "Toss a blaster far down the road, and when they start forward to investigate, we take them from behind. Knife in the lungs and nobody makes a sound."
"Can't breathe, can't scream," Jak agreed, nodding.
"Sounds good." Ryan drew his panga, the curved blade streaked with dried blood from the previous night's interrupted dinner. The sight shocked the man, as he had never gone so long before without cleaning the weapon. He had to take his mind off Dean and concentrate on killing the sec men. Then a familiar rumble sounded from the ruins, and a horn beeped in warning.
"Shit," Ryan whispered. "Convoy!"
The distant rumble of engines became louder, until around the corner lumbered an old WWII jeep jammed full of men. Behind it wa
s a flatbed truck piled with mattresses, and lastly a battered U.S. Mail truck, the driver wearing a gas mask.
"Exhaust-pipe leak?" Krysty guessed.
Scowling, Ryan said nothing, and Jak continued to unwrap the electrical tape from the handle of the gren.
The convoy of predark vehicles pulled to a ragged stop in front of the tunnel, and the drivers got out. The tunnel guards walked over to greet the newcomers, and soon the two groups were smoking pipes and swapping canteens. From the reactions, some of the containers didn't contain water. The desert breezes carried away most of the conversation, with only scraps audible to the companions.
"…bodies slashed to ribbons…"
"…blasters…"
"…muties had a real party last night…"
"…enough for a new greenhouse…"
His ruby eyes going wide, Jak curled a lip in disgust. Krysty turned slightly pale, and Ryan felt sick to his stomach. The local baron was using people as fertilizer in greenhouses? Part of him acknowledged the intelligence of the notion, turning liabilities into assets, but the whole thing was a bit too close to cannibalism for him.
Ryan motioned for a retreat, and the companions crawled back to the river some fifty yards away, where they could converse in private.
"Gaia, eating their own dead," Krysty said.
With a curt hand motion, Ryan interrupted. "Doesn't matter. This is even better than questioning the guards. This is our way in and out of the ville. Everybody agrees the thief must have sold the kit to the baron, right?" Brisk nods answered the question. "Okay, then, so do we. Here's the plan."
"HEY, HARRY," a driver called out, leaning his long-blaster against a truck, the hot engine under the battered hood ticking loudly as it cooled. "You gotta see this!"
Puffing on his corncob pipe, Harry started over as Trevor began to unfold a glossy sheet of paper. "What-cha got, Trevor?"
"Found this on the wall of a brake shop. Not bad, eh?"
A smile growing wide, Harry gazed at the naked woman, dressed in lace and bound in leather. He whistled in appreciation. "Goddamn, that's hot!"
" 'Darla Crane,' " the driver read off the back. "Gotta love them redheads."
"Nyah, blondes do it for me," George said.
"Long as they don't carry knives," Phil added, leaning against the tiled wall and tapping his pipe out in a palm. "Pass her over, boys, give me a gander."
"Just don't drool." Harry laughed, ambling closer.
"And give it back!" Trevor added angrily.
Just then, the sound of a roaring engine broke the silence of the predark ruins.
"Another one of ours coming in?" George asked.
Dropping the poster, Phil grabbed his blaster and cocked the hammer. Only the Wolf Pack got bolt-action blasters, and nobody had autofires anymore. But these muzzle-loaders still killed at a hundred paces, even if they did make enough smoke to blind a man.
"Ours?" Trevor asked, drawing his revolver. As a driver, he got special considerations from the baron. "Hell, no. We're lucky to have these three rolling at the same time. Damn rust buckets are always breaking down."
The noise drastically increased, and a huge vehicle erupted around the corner, sand and dust spraying off the tires as it spun in a circle in the intersection. The driver seemed to be lost, confused or insane.
"This way!" George called out, buttoning his fatigues while waving a hand. "Run for the tunnel. We'll hold off the wolves!"
Obediently, the wag started forward and they caught sight of the driver, an albino with snow-white hair and eyes like rubies.
"Mutie!" Henry screamed fearfully.
Now the driver spun the vehicle in a figure-eight pattern, kicking up a tremendous dust cloud. The sec men covered their faces with neckerchiefs as the desert wind blew the choking cloud over the tunnel opening.
Then the driver slammed on the brakes, the nose of the wag dipping toward the ground and the wheels squealing in protest. As it bounced to a halt, the albino drew his mammoth blaster, the long barrel gleaming in the dim daylight. The driver fired twice, the sounds echoing down the tunnel. Oddly, the slugs hit the tunnel wall, cracking the tiles but nothing more. The pale stranger stomped on the accelerator, the big wag spinning its tires in the sand, raising an even bigger cloud than before as it sped away, zigzagging wildly back and forth down the road.
Leveling the museum-piece rifle, Harry eased back the iron hammer, checked the flint and pulled the trigger all in one smooth motion. Flame and smoke thundered from the pitted muzzle of the two-yard-long blaster. In spite of the moving target, the miniball scored a direct hit on the military wag, but only ricocheted off the armored side. Then the wag took a corner and was gone.
"You muck-eating idiot!" Phil cursed, slapping down the flintlock rifle. "He wasn't going to stop with you shooting at him!"
"He was a mutie!" Harry replied hotly. "Whiter than milk! Probably a stickie from the waist down, or something even worse!"
"Don't care if he was part blood rat. Stop the wag, then kill the driver, fool! How many times have I told you that?"
"Son of a bitch!" George coughed, brushing out his bushy beard. "Let's go get the bastard!"
"No need to chase him," Phil said, holstering his revolver. "He can hide from the wolves during the day, but when night falls and the bats start hunting, he'll come crawling back. Tomorrow, his ass is ours."
"And then we'll make him pay," Harry added grimly.
"Yeah." Wiping the sand off his pockmarked face, George gave a guttural laugh. "They don't all have to be alive. Baron needs corpses, too."
Beating the dust off his caked clothes, Trevor started to agree with the gate guards, when he heard a metallic creak. Turning fast, revolver steady at his hip, the sec man blinked a few moments to clear his sight. Nothing seemed unusual or misplaced. Then he could have sworn that his mail truck moved slightly. He walked over and yanked open the doors.
Human corpses were piled haphazardly on the floorboards of the vehicle, bones and organs exposed, loose limbs and hands lying in the corners so badly had the winged muties clawed the bodies to pieces. Sprawled on top was an intact male corpse without an eye, and a redhead female dressed in military coveralls who didn't appear mauled at all. Trevor studied the curve of her shapely ass for a moment before abruptly slamming the door.
Climbing into the cab, he pumped and throttled the engine a few shots to get the big-block V-8 firing on the alcohol fuel. The engine finally caught, and he started to roll into the dark tunnel.
"Damn, I got to get to the gaudy house fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the gas mask from a bag on his belt and sliding in over his head. "Been too long without quim when the stiffs start looking good."
AS THE CORPSE-FILLED truck began to move, Krysty rolled off Ryan and both drew their blasters. Crawling over the dead, she looked out the tiny rearview window. The opening of the tunnel shrank in their wake. Dimly seen through the billowing dust clouds, the guards were searching the ground for their dropped cigs.
Ryan tied his eye patch on and pulled a few strands of his black hair loose that got caught in the knot.
"Hope Jak is okay," Krysty said softly.
"We would have heard them boasting if not," Ryan noted in a whisper, retrieving his Steyr from underneath a headless torso. "Okay, we give this convoy a few minutes until we're near the middle of the tunnel. These things are long, sometimes a quarter mile in length. Water damage should rough both ends, but the middle will be smooth. Once the tires start humming, we go."
"At least he's not going very fast," she stated. "Won't hurt much jumping from this crawling can."
"Agreed."
The redhead jiggled the handle on the door. "Locked," she reported. "No surprise. Probably don't want folks robbing the dead of blasters and such."
"Ever hear of a baron who did?"
"Only your family," she whispered, trying to stand but the ceiling was too low. Krysty debated sitting or kneeling, and settled for crouching on her heels. The blo
od and the guts didn't bother her much. It was the warmth of the fresh corpses, suggesting a terrible mockery of life. Under her breath, she uttered a short prayer to Gaia. During this, the bouncing of the rough road diminished and the tires began to softly hum under the truck.
Patiently, Ryan gave her the moment, then asked, "Ready?"
"Go ahead," she said, covering her ears with her palms.
Placing a hand against the roof as a brace, Ryan aimed the 9 mm SIG-Sauer at the back door of the vehicle, when the truck jounced through a deep pothole. The blaster coughed softly, blowing out the aft window in a loud crash of glass.
"What the fuck was that?" demanded a voice from the other side of the front wall.
The element of surprise gone, Ryan spun fast, estimating three feet off the floor and two feet from the left, then fired again twice more. The corpses and interior of the truck strobed from the flash of the shots. In response, a startled gasp, then wet burbling noises came from the front of the wag. Without a pause, Ryan put another round through the passenger side of the vehicle. The truck started to zigzag wildly, began to slow and abruptly stopped, throwing the companions and the corpses forward into a bloody pile.
Forcibly extracting himself, Ryan kicked open the back door and jumped to the ground. Krysty joined him in a heartbeat.
"Can't chance hiding," he decided. "We're in a tunnel with zero cover and nowhere to run."
The redhead pulled a knife into view. "Then we chill the bastards."
Ryan grunted agreement. Racing around to the driver's-side door, he yanked it open and hauled out the dead man behind the wheel. Climbing into the cab, he fumbled in the darkness for the keys, but they weren't in the ignition anymore. When he got shot, the driver had to have yanked them loose.
Ahead of them down the tunnel, the taillights of the flatbed truck flared brightly red as the brakes were applied.
"He's seen us," Krysty warned, sliding into the passenger seat.
"Working on it," Ryan muttered, scrounging madly about on the floor. Something metallic came under his fingers and pain cut into his thumb. He cursed and brushed it aside. Bastard pulltop from a can! Then a jingling noise sounded as he touched something metallic, loose and on a ring.