by James Axler
"Got them," Ryan said, sitting upright.
Fumbling a bit, he tried a key in the ignition, but it didn't fit. Carefully, sliding that down the ring, he cupped it in his palm to keep it out of the way and tried the next. That key was close, but not quite the correct size. It went in, but not all the way. Probably the key for the back door. The next key was huge and would never fit in the ignition switch.
In the darkness ahead of them, a soft beeping sounded as the brake lights on the truck winked out and the vehicle began backing their way.
"They're coming," Krysty said, patting her pockets for matches or a lighter to help him see. She found a matchbox, but it proved to be empty.
Closing his eye to concentrate, Ryan tried another— too small. The next he passed on, as the stubby key was round and the slot for the switch was long and thin. What the hell did this bastard have so many keys for?
Blaster in hand, the woman opened her door and put one leg out. "Thirty yards," she announced, holding the blaster in both hands and resting the barrel on the window frame, assuming a firing stance.
Lots of keys remained on the ring, but they were out of time. "Last one," he said. "Then we run for it."
Jabbing the worn key toward the slot, he was shocked when it smoothly slid into place. Stomping on the accelerator, Ryan turned the ignition and the warm engine roared into life. Snapping on the headlights, he angled the wag away from the wall and started to creep forward. Krysty closed her door, but kept the S&W .38 out the window in case of trouble.
The truck ahead of them didn't slow, so Ryan beeped the horn. The toot produced was pitifully weak, most likely that way even before the centuries robbed it of power, so Ryan pounded on the horn a few more times. Feeble as it was, the other driver had to have heard the musical squeaks because he stopped the backward progress of the flatbed, and as they came dangerously close, the other truck began to roll forward.
"Thinks we stalled," Ryan guessed, easing the tension in his arms and hands.
"These old engines probably do it constantly," Krysty said, placing the blaster in her lap for fast access.
"Well, we were lucky with this truck," Ryan observed, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. The bullet hole had forced out a spring that was digging into his ribs, annoying as hell. "Can't chance that again with the flatbed. Must have three guys or more riding shotgun. And if they see us, we're in for a fight."
The tunnel gently curved to the left. Ryan had always wondered why long tunnels did that until Mildred explained it to him. The angle was a break-slope, designed to ease the rush of water charging along the tunnel should there be a midspan break.
"Only three," Krysty said resolutely. "We can take them."
"Can't chance it," Ryan countered. "Getting that med kit is our top priority. If we get caught, Dean could be dead before we could escape."
"He'll be fine. He's tougher than a nail."
"Dean's a survivor," Ryan said, offering his highest compliment.
"We have mebbe ten or fifteen minutes before we reach the end of this tunnel. We have to come up with a plan."
"Yeah, I know," Ryan told her, shifting gears as the curve gently straightened. "I'll have something by then. Mebbe we could— Fireblast!"
Up ahead, faint orange daylight streamed into the tunnel, and tiny figures were walking around on the ground near what resembled a machine-gun nest and a concrete barricade.
Chapter Twelve
Standing guard on the roof of the federal building, Doc checked his windup pocket chron. The timepiece said noon, but the sky above beguiled the fact with streaming yellow clouds streaked with lambent red and blotchy with purple. Even the lizards in the streets seemed to know a bad storm was approaching, as they dug holes in the sand and collapsed the openings upon themselves.
Careful not to pinch his fingers, J.B. lowered the sheet of Plexiglas into the skylight frame. The janitor's closet had been a windfall of material, including replacement glass for the windows and skylight. Unfortunately, the silicon putty had long ago turned into a dried brick, but he had an answer for that problem.
"How's it look?" the Armorer asked, extracting a candle from the bag at his feet. Crushing a pellet of pyrotab so it burst into flame, he lit the wick before the chemical compound burned itself out.
Standing nearby, Doc removed his gaze from the ville around them and studied the repair job. "Good," he finally said, the Heckler & Koch G-12 resting in the crook of his arm.
Rifles weren't his forte, but as a rooftop sentry he needed something a lot quieter and with greater range than his hog-leg .44 LeMat. Dean's caseless rifle fit the bill perfectly, even though this was the last reload. A hundred rounds and the blaster was dead.
"Very good, in fact. That soap you smeared on the inside of the sheet makes it seem sandblasted just like the others."
Tilting the candle, J.B. carefully dribbled the melting wax along the edge of the glass, using a stick to push it into place. He just nodded, concentrating on his work. This window needed to resemble the others in the skylight so that nothing and nobody could tell this was where Dean had fallen through.
"It will last for months if the weather holds."
"More than sufficient," Doc agreed, as he fought back a yawn. "The flask is still half-full. Some more coffee?"
"Hell, yes," J.B. said, starting a second pass over the frame. It had been a long night moving their supplies over to this building, then erasing every trace of the work, using brooms to sweep away their tracks in the sand.
There came the single crack of a blaster.
J.B. dropped the candle and rotated on his heels, his Uzi out and ready. "Muties?" he demanded.
"Skylight," Doc remarked, shouldering the HK G-12.
"Come again?" J.B. demanded, sliding the safety back on his weapon.
"Disguising our location is a logical precaution, agreed? However, I decided to augment the strategy by offering any possible hunters an alternate locale for investigation."
"Ah, you shot out another skylight," J.B. stated, then he glanced about, "Where?"
Doc pointed. "There, a few blocks over. A most prudent expenditure of ammunition, I can assure you."
"I agree," J.B. said with a smile. "But do you honestly think the muties might be smart enough to recall that Dean fell through a skylight, and will check out the other instead?"
"Ryan often remarked that the Trader stated when you underestimate the enemy, what you really do is overestimate yourself."
"Sure sounds like the Trader." J.B. laughed, then paused and stared hard at the streets below. A dust cloud was coming their way. "Incoming."
The two men moved to the corner of the roof and studied the approaching vehicle.
"The Hummer, I see," Doc said, frowning. "And, pray tell, who is that riding with our young Mr. Lauren?"
J.B. scowled. "Beats me. Let's go and find out."
"STOP HERE," Wu-Lang snapped, his blaster pressed hard into Jak's side. The Cajun didn't reply, but brought the Hummer to a stop a few stores down the street from the pawnshop.
"Hello!" a voice called out from the roof.
Trying to hide the blaster, Wu-Lang craned his neck, glancing around. Nobody was visible.
"Hello down there," the voice said again. A man wearing glasses and a hat appeared over the edge of a roof, waving in greeting. "Jak, I see you have company!"
"Answer him," Wu-Lang ordered, putting on a friendly smile.
"So can kill friend?" Jak asked, hands motionless on the steering wheel. "Fuck you twice."
Viciously, Wu-Lang dug the barrel of his S&W .357 deeper into the teenager's ribs. He expected a whimper of pain, but got only a soft grunt.
"Just do as I tell ya, Snowball, and both you and your buddy will live to see another day. All I want is more fuel and some food so I leave this stinking ville," he snapped. "Get me the stuff and I'm gone."
"We live?"
"Of course. You're still breathing, ain't you?"
Jak glared at the man o
ut of the corner of an eye. "Need me get fuel."
"Hey, something wrong?" the man from the roof called out.
"Wave and tell him to come on down," Wu-Lang demanded, twisting the barrel of the gun. Jak grunted again, a reddish stain on his vest slowly spreading out from the spot.
Beaming happily, Wu-Lang clicked back the hammer. "Do it or die. I have nothing to lose."
"No problems!" Jak called out, snapping off a friendly salute. "Come down, Bruce. Want meet old buddy from bayou!"
"The bayou, eh?" J.B. smiled, doffing his hat and waving it twice. "Great! Is this your cousin Charlie?"
"Brian."
The man cupped an ear. "Eh? What was that?"
"Brian. His name is Brian."
The conversation was taking an odd turn, and Wu-Lang was starting to get suspicious. He debated chilling the albino and driving off immediately when a bizarre noise sounded, sort of like a zipper unfastening, only much faster and louder.
Instantly, the windshield of the Hummer shattered into a million pieces and white-hot pain stabbed Wu-Lang as a flurry of 4.7 nun rounds ripped into his chest. Jak dived from the Hummer just as the coldheart fired his blaster, blowing a hole in the canvas door. Another flurry hit, and Wu-Lang jerked about madly, his chest spouting crimson like a punctured water balloon. The dying man worked his mouth a few times, trying to speak, blood flowing freely over his lips, and he slumped over and hit his head on the dashboard.
Sporting the HK G-12, Doc stepped from the doorway of the federal building. "How are you doing, Jak?" Doc called out, staying in the cover of the partially open doorway.
"Name's Alvin!" the Cajun answered, dusting himself off. Doc relaxed and waved at the roof. J.B. returned the gesture and disappeared from view. By the time he reached the street, Jak and Doc were already hauling the corpse into the back of the Hummer.
"Good idea hiding the body," J.B. said. "The smell of blood will attract animals for miles."
As the hijacker slumped limply into the cargo area, Doc prodded the corpse with his ebony cane. "And pray tell, who was our uninvited visitor?"
"Coldheart who wanted leave ruins," Jak said, holding his side and wincing.
Gathering the dropped blaster from where it fell, Doc inspected the dead man's blaster. "Excellent piece, fine condition." He cracked the cylinder and checked the ammo. The bullets were reloads, but very well done. "Any more in his pockets?"
Expertly, Jak rifled the dead man's clothing. "Nope. Just spoon, can opener, cig lighter."
"I'll take the lighter," J.B. said, and Jak tossed it over.
"Four rounds is it, then," Doc said, and, walking to the front of the Hummer, slid the blaster into the map compartment. "Never hurts to have a spare."
"How did he get the drop on you?" J.B. asked curiously, tucking the butane lighter into his munitions bag.
"Jumped on hood from overpass," Jak said, making a face. He had been caught unawares like a stupe, and the Cajun felt embarrassed. "Shoved blaster my face. No choice but obey."
J.B. could read the teenager's expression. "I would have done the same myself. What did he want from us anyway, food or blasters?"
"Fuel. Wanted leave bad. Kept looking sky."
"Watching for our winged muties, perhaps?" Doc inquired.
"Yep. Called them demons."
"Good name," J.B. admitted, starting to light his cigar stub, then forcing his hand away. "They're the nastiest bastards I've encountered since Larry Zapp."
"Well, he does not need to fear their arrival anymore," Doc said, raking the street with his hand and tossing some sand on the man. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Where shall we dispose of the body?"
"River," Jak suggested practically. "Water carry to ocean."
"Exemplary, my young friend. Let us be off."
"Wait, I have a better notion," J.B. countered, chewing the stub from one side of his mouth to the other. "Let's drop him off in a vacant lot a few blocks from here with a nice block of C-4 under his ass. Might get a few muties or wolves that way."
"Sounds good," Jak agreed, then he winced as sweat touched the cut in his side.
"Hey, are you hurt?" J.B. asked in concern.
"Just scratch," Jak said dismissively, showing the minor wound. "But how Dean?"
"The same."
"Oh."
"By the way," Doc asked, "where are Ryan and Krysty? Any news on the whereabouts of the medical kit?"
Quickly, Jak told them what happened.
"So they tracked him inside the ville," J.B. said, crossing his arms. "Damn, I don't like the fact that we have no way of contacting them, or even keeping track of their progress."
"Perhaps there is a way," Doc said unexpectedly, studying the cloudy sky. It was difficult to gauge the hour with the heavy blanket of storm clouds blocking the sun. His pocket chron was working fine, but since they didn't know where they were, it could be hours fast or slow in regard to the local time. They didn't even know if this was still America.
"Four, maybe five, hours of light remain," Doc said. "Not nearly enough for my plan. Gentlemen, I suggest Jak stays with Dr. Wyeth to bring her up to date, while John Barrymore and I drop off our guest, and then reconnoiter a few stores to see if we can find some barbed wire for the internal defenses."
Something moved in the cloudy sky and the companions drew their weapons, dropping into combat crouches. The lone sting-wing circled overhead, then moved off.
"Here," Doc said, passing the teenager the G-12. "The Uzi and my LeMat should be sufficient protection for this brief sojourn. But if there is trouble here, you will need the extra firepower."
Accepting the rifle, Jak weighed it judiciously. "Feels light. Ninety rounds?"
"Eighty," Doc said. "I was a bit overzealous eliminating your unwanted passenger."
"Shot him, not me. No complaints." Jak laughed, resting the stock on his hip.
"Thank you. Most kind," Doc said, wiping off the blood on the front seat before climbing into the wag. "Tomorrow morning, we shall go back to the redoubt and load up on all the fuel we can find. Then we go hunting."
"For the muties?" J.B. asked, starting the engine.
"Better," the old man replied, then explained as they drove off.
WIPING THE DIRT off his hand, Gunther breathed in the rich fragrance of the greenhouse and stopped for a moment to admire the beautiful green plants surrounding him in rows upon rows. The shafts of corn were thickly golden, with rich chaff almost bursting to get out. The new tomatoes were small, but growing steadily larger, and the carpeting of soybeans underneath the tall plants was so thick the leaves had a bluish hue.
"Excuse me, Baron," Leonard said from the doorway. "Important news."
"Report," the baron ordered, gently turning a leaf to inspect the underside for any signs of infestation. "Will you look here? That old book we found was correct. Mixing cigarette tobacco and soapy water completely killed those aphids. How clever the ancient gardeners were."
The teenager stepped closer. "We have been invaded."
Retrieving shears from a wicker basket of implements, the baron snipped off a ripe tomato and placed it reverently in a cushion of clean cloth. A special treat for his own dinner this night.
"I do not hear blasterfire in the streets," he said calmly, noticing a meal worm on the stalk. Savagely, he crushed the insect, then wiped his fingers in the rich dark loam beneath the plants. Waste not, want not.
"We found the jolt dealers in the ruins," Leonard said hurriedly. "The muties got them."
The baron tilted his head in thought. The air of the greenhouse was rich, almost pungent with the smell of life itself. "Good. Some of our most recent arrivals had warned us of their coming. Now the problem has been corrected. Did we get much in the way of tools and blasters?"
"No tools, but cases of autofires and a hundredweight of ammo."
"Are you serious? This is excellent news."
"But when the convoy arrived, the last truck, the one carrying the corpses, rammed throu
gh the barricade, killing two of our sec men and destroying the big machine gun."
"The driver did this?" Gunther demanded, power flowing into his voice as the last gossamer traces of tranquility faded from his demeanor.
"No, sir. We found him five hundred yards down the tunnel, shot through the back. All drivers and sec men have been accounted for. Nobody is missing."
"You are my right hand, Leonard," the baron rumbled, his fiery hair flexing and rearranging itself about his shoulders. "There are three possibilities, so we shall start with the most obvious. The fight occurred inside the tunnel, the worst possible location for an attack, so it wasn't a traitor. They would have waited until the trucks were in the ruins, far from our retaliation. So what does that indicate?"
"A corpse," Leonard said.
"We think alike, son. Yes, the guards must have been lax checking the bodies again, one came awake and killed the driver. But it would take a truly exceptional man to accomplish such a task. Our drivers are chosen for their physical strength."
"And loyalty."
"Fear and hunger make all men loyal."
"So where should we start looking for the corpse? Returning through the tunnel would be impossible without a wag. So he must have taken refuge within our ville."
Gathering the basket of produce, Gunther stood towering over his adopted son. The boy's hair was red, almost as red as his own, but it was flat and lifeless, the similarity to himself only cosmetic.
"Alert all of our sec men," the baron commanded. "Find the intruder before nightfall."
The words "or else" weren't spoken, nor was it necessary. Leonard understood. Invaders were either spies, assassins or thieves. There were no other possibilities, and all were automatically sentenced to the Machine.
Gunther continued, "Check the market square. That is where he, or she, will most likely try to mingle in with the citizens."
"Then that is where we shall capture him," Leonard said confidently, snapping his heels.
"Exactly. And capture him alive. If this man is an advance scout, we'll need to know the plans of the enemy."