by James Axler
"You folks okay?" J.B. asked in concern, cradling the Uzi.
"Gaia, no," Krysty replied, scrambling over the sandbag wall. "We have an army on our tail."
"Then we must leave, posthaste!" Doc said, waving away the tendrils of smoke from the muzzle of his black-powder hog-leg.
Shouldering his rifle, Ryan snarled, "Fuck that. Got any grens, or plas-ex?"
"Not a thing. Used it all killing the muties," J.B. said. "Even our one LAW is gone."
"How about spare fuel?"
Seeing where the man was going, J.B. got the idea. "No, but we have two alcohol lanterns we took from some sec men. That should do the job."
"Get them. You two, block the doorway," Ryan ordered, going for the Hummer.
Moving fast, Krysty and Doc holstered their weapons and started tossing sandbags from the wall in front of the open doorway until the stack was chest high. J.B. and Ryan returned at a run, lit the wicks on the lanterns and threw them onto the barrier. The lanterns crashed high on the wooden half circle of the tunnel's mouth, the flaming alcohol flowing down the planks and spreading until the entire front was crackling and smoking.
"That won't hold the baron's men for very long," J.B. stated.
"Not supposed to," Ryan said, blinking in the pale daylight. Rumbling with thunder, the dirty clouds were low in the sky and a lot darker in color. Lightning flashed, and the winds increased slightly. The storm that had been threatening to break ever since they first arrived was now only hours away. Acid rain or a sandstorm, either could be an advantage if handled correctly.
"Please elucidate, sir," Doc asked, confused.
"I only wanted the fire to get rid of the wood," Ryan said, heading for the Hummer and climbing behind the wheel. The engine caught the first time. "Now let's get the hell out of here, so we can come back and finish this."
"To fight an army?" Krysty asked, dropping the med kit on the floorboards as she took the passenger seat.
Making room for Doc in the back, J.B. was smiling, as if he already knew the answer and highly approved.
"Hell no," Ryan stated, driving away. "We're going to stop the baron's army. With one shot."
THE BURNING BARRIER smashed apart, the smoking timbers tumbling to the ground as a bulldozer effortlessly plowed through. Right behind the rattling predark machine were a hundred sec men with blasters, then a dozen carts full of supplies. The dozer plowed the front of the tunnel clear of planks, sandbags and corpses as the sec force spread out, immediately setting up defensive posts and starting a perimeter sweep for enemies. A few carried muzzle-loaders, but the rest sported autofires, loot from the baron's private armory mixed with the fancy blasters recovered from the dead jolt dealers.
Cradling M-16 submachine guns, the Wolf Pack marched into view followed by a sky-blue Cadillac convertible with the top down. Leonard was standing in the passenger's seat holding on to the windshield. His longish hair was now a crew cut, and the teenager was dressed in a black jumpsuit, with leather bandoliers full of ammo crisscrossing his chest. A silver Desert Eagle rode at his right hip, and a Navy flare gun rested in a shoulder holster.
The driver was a grizzled man with an unhealed gash across his face from the destruction of the greenhouses. A sawed-off shotgun lay on top of the dashboard before him, his shirt pocket jammed with homemade shells.
The crowd of sec men moved out of the way for the Caddy, and it stopped in the middle of the access ramp for the tunnel.
"Sergeant," Leonard yelled, indicating a soldier, "have the men establish a perimeter, then recce the local buildings for snipers. I want a safety zone of two full blocks. A storm is coming, and I want that bitch and her friend found before it hits."
"Sir!"
Leonard watched the activity bustling around him as more wags rolled out of the tunnel. The trap with the APC had been extremely clever, but failed. The tunnel was severely weakened there, and the river was steadily trickling in, but the predark storm drains easily handled the flow and diverted the water…well, someplace else. He didn't know or care where as long as the underground passageway stayed clear for his sec men. Timbers hoisted by car jacks reinforced the ceiling, making a maze for the wags to carefully maneuver through. But it worked. They were here and ready for a fight.
"Establish camp here, Captain," Leonard commanded. "We can retire at night inside the tunnel in case of muties."
"Or a storm," the driver added, listening to the angry sky.
"Is that a good idea, Lieuten—? Baron?" Captain Zanders asked, running an uncomfortable finger along the interior of the collar of his new uniform. Anton Zanders an officer—his mother would have died with pride. "Shouldn't we make camp inside the sports arena or the high school? They're both in good shape. Gives us lots of room to maneuver."
The young baron stared hard at the grizzled veteran until he felt flush with unease.
"Safety first, Captain. But thank you for the opinion," Leonard said with surprising gentleness. "My father had favorites among the troops whom he would promote out of friendship. I do not. That idiot officer in charge of tunnel defense was the first man I sent to the farmers."
"Sent to till the farms, you mean, sir," the captain offered as a correction.
Looking over the men, the youth said nothing in reply.
Zanders tried to hide his pleasure and failed.
"The man was a total jackass," he spit, "Should have told me, sir. I would have turned on the Machine myself and tossed him in."
"Which is why you are in charge now, Captain." Baron Leonard Strichland stepped down from the Cadillac and walked about.
"However, I do agree with you about mobility. This area will merely be our base camp. From here, we spread out through the ruins, systematically checking every street every building."
The former sergeant scratched his ear. "I don't know, Baron. That might drive her into the desert."
"I'm prepared for that," Leonard replied, watching a team of specially chosen hunters head out into the dunes. They were his insurance. If this should fail, their job was to track the woman until they brought back her head. The families of the hunters would stay safe and warm in Alphaville as security to guarantee their allegiance to the task. Fear and hunger made all men obedient. In a well of emotions, his chest ached with the thought of his slain father, then the youth forced himself hard again. Only the strong survived, and the weak didn't rule.
"Baron, the area is secure," a sec man reported, crisply saluting. "The buildings on both sides of us are clear, cellar to roof."
"Good. Thank you," Leonard replied, wiggling uncomfortably in his new stiff boots. Sneakers were more comfortable, but didn't look impressive. Power knew no pain. His father had also told him that many times over dinner, or at an execution.
"Any footprints or tire tracks?" Zanders asked brusquely.
"None, sir."
"Well, they didn't fly away, moron. Have the trackers search again."
Another salute. "Yes, sir."
Zanders slapped the hand down. "And stop doing that, ya gleeb. The boss looks bad enough in his new uniform. You want to tell a sniper exactly who to shoot at?"
Walking slowly forward, the Cadillac right behind him, the baron arched an eyebrow at the statement, but didn't speak. Was he overdressed? Damn. Mebbe.
"Oh." The sec man had obviously never considered that. "Sorry, sir." His hand twitched but stayed at his side.
"Better," the captain grumped. "Now, have we checked the skyscraper yet?"
Watching a squad of men dig foxholes, Leonard turned and interrupted. "Is that necessary, Captain? The top is so far away, what weapon could possibly…"
His words faded as a contrail of white smoke moved across the sky from the top of the tall building, traveling straight for them.
"Incoming!" the captain bellowed, diving for the ground, pulling the baron with him.
The contrail arced down to impact directly inside the mouth of the tunnel. The world shuddered from the explosion, bricks and tiles sh
otgunning out to fell scores of screaming men. Another contrail streaked in to punch through the bulldozer, the ground underneath the machine rising to tear it to pieces. Then a third and fourth contrail hit the tunnel again, cracking apart the concrete apron in strident fury. With the groan of a dying giant, the tunnel crumbled apart, the steel support beams screaming as they twisted out of shape. In slow grandeur, the opening crashed shut, spewing thick billowing clouds of acidic concrete dust.
"Rockets!" a man yelled in panic. "They'll wipe us out! We surrender! We surrender!"
Rising, Leonard drew his blaster and shot the man where he stood, the .50-caliber round from the Desert Eagle spinning the man like a top before he fell over.
"There are no more rockets," the young baron shouted, holstering the piece, his wrist aching from the recoil. "If they had more, they would have used more. Do you hear any more explosions? No. The attack is over."
Sullenly, the troops got to their feet and retrieved dropped weapons. For most of them, this was a lot different than bullying civvies or shooting escaped prisoners.
"Captain, I apologize," Leonard said, offering the man assistance. "Get a squad up there immediately. Or should we set fire to the building?"
There was no response from the still form, and the young baron noticed an unbroken tile sticking out of the back of Zanders's head, his exposed brains a pulpy mass of soggy red tissue dribbling onto the dry soil. Leonard turned away from the corpse, his eyes stinging, his heart pounding. So fast, it had happened so fast.
"Lieutenant Kelly, you are now in charge of the men," he barked. "Get a team to the skyscraper and kill anybody you find. Then set fire to the bastard thing!"
"Sir!" the officer barked, saluting.
The young baron ignored that for the moment. "Sergeant Jarmal, divide the men into thirds. One group starts clearing the tunnel, the second finds that high school Zanders mentioned and begins fortifying it, the third salvages anything useful from the wreckage." Leonard paused for longer than he meant to. "And the dead."
"Yes, my lord!"
"It appears," Leonard said grimly to nobody in particular, "that despite my wishes, we're trapped here until further notice."
Chapter Nineteen
Sweaty and bloody, Mildred stumbled out of the tent in the basement of the building. The exhausted physician was holding a lantern. Every other lantern the companions owned was inside the bedsheet tent, backed by a mirror, the glow infusing the food court with almost noontime clarity. The air of the entire level reeked with alcohol, and the floors shone from a fresh scrubbing.
Five anxious faces watched her approach. Nobody spoke. Ryan sat in a chair holding a full cup of cold coffee. Earlier in the day, it had been steaming hot Krysty sat nearby, her hand on his. Doc crossed his fingers. Trying hard to appear calm, J.B. and Jak both looked as if they were about to defuse a bomb.
"He'll live," Mildred reported, removing her homemade surgical mask and mopping her damp brow. Just a few layers of white cloth cut from a shirt and boiled clean, but it served the job. Her gown was a kitchen apron, bleached white and boiled in antiseptic mouthwash.
Ryan started to rise, then sat down again. Krysty squeezed his hand, while J.B. slapped him on the back.
"Told you so," the Armorer said, grinning. "Dean's tough as shoe leather."
"He's young and strong, and everything went textbook perfect. Oh, he'll have some scars, but the rib will be fine and there's no danger of paralysis or blindness."
Walking to a punch bowl filled with bottled water and contact-lens cleaner, a mild solution of boric acid, Mildred washed her bare hands clean, using a spare toothbrush to scrub extra hard under her fingernails. Apparently, in predark days, business executives traveled unexpectedly a lot. Most of the offices here had travel packs in the desks. The old materials were a perfect mix for surgery—mouthwash, soap, floss. And the first-aid box in the receptionist's desk had given her enough iodine solution for postop, once she revitalized the dried crystals with sterile water.
"So he'll be okay," Ryan said without emotion.
Patting her hands dry, Mildred snorted. "You should be so healthy."
On a nearby table, a glass pot of MRE coffee was simmering over a candle. J.B. poured Mildred a cup, added two sugars and brought it over. She accepted the brew gratefully and slumped into an empty office chair. Mildred took a sip and for the first time in a long while didn't grimace in distaste. By God, even this military boot cleaner was good after six hours of meatball surgery. Homemade masks, flour, water and newspaper to make papier-mache for the cast, fishing line for sutures, vodka to wash the floor…Hawkeye Pierce, eat your heart out.
Seeing her actions, Ryan drained his own cup untasted and stiffly stood. "Can I see him?"
"Sure. You couldn't wake Dean with a bomb. I shot enough sodium pentathol into him to keep him asleep for hours. Had to guess at the dosage, it was so old and weak. But he'll be out for quite a while."
"You sure?" Ryan asked, taking a spare mask off the small pile on a restaurant countertop.
Typical concerned parent. Mildred kept her voice soothing. "Yes, Mr. Cawdor, everything went fine. Dean will be his old self in a few months."
"Months?" Krysty repeated. "Mildred, we can't stay here that long."
J.B. offered the physician a refill, but Mildred waved it off. Sleep was what she needed most now. "Don't have to. We can leave as soon as Dean wakes. Maybe tomorrow."
"Hallelujah." Doc sighed.
"We just have to take it real easy going over those dunes," Mildred continued, fighting a yawn. "I don't want my fine stitching to pop and have to go in again. I'm out of 4-0 silk, and you folks can't afford the blood."
It was true. The companions were exhausted from the transfusions. Just prior to the operation, Mildred had taken a pint and a half from each of them, the maximum that could be safely drained without endangering the giver. Only Ryan's blood type matched his son's, so the rest went into mason jars and they were swung overhead at the end of a rope for hours until the clear plasma and the blood cells separated. Mismatch blood types, and a patient suffered horribly. But anybody could accept anybody's plasma. Some mighty fine engineering there by the Lord, as her father used to remark during his Sunday services.
Not bothering to try to stifle her next yawn, Mildred noticed a lack of enthusiasm from the others.
"I said he's going to be fine," she stated irritably. "Why all the long faces?"
"Skyscraper on fire," Jak said, resting his elbows on his knees, his snowy hair tumbling down to hide his scared features.
The physician frowned. "Still? I thought J.B. said the fires died from the cocktails he and Doc used on the muties."
"This is the new baron's work," Ryan said, stepping from the bedsheet tent, carrying the other lantern. Mildred was right; the boy seemed fine. He put down the lantern he had brought out and turned off the wick. No sense wasting fuel. Dean would sleep regardless, and they were low on juice.
"Set fire to a whole building, just to get rid of us?"
"More likely to flush us out of hiding," J.B. stated, polishing his glasses on the sleeve of his new shirt. Smelled a bit musty, but it was nice and thick.
"Me, specifically," Krysty said, tearing open an MRE pack. Suddenly her appetite was back with a vengeance. Using her teeth to open a foil envelope of corned-beef hash, she dug in with the attached plastic spoon. One hundred years old at room temperature, and it tasted like ambrosia.
"Damn." The physician nervously glanced at the covering of barbed wire and curtains above them as if able to see the tall building fifty blocks away. "Is the blaze spreading?"
"Thankfully no, madam," Doc replied, resting his chin on top of his cane. "We kept careful track of its progress until the danger passed."
And they didn't inform her so she could concentrate on Dean. Smart move. "Think he'll set fire to the rest of the ruins?"
"I doubt it. Too much here yet to be salvaged. Probably just removing a potential source of danger," Rya
n said, reclaiming a chair and laying the Steyr across his lap. Nimble hands began stripping the blaster for a cleaning. "After all, that's where I launched the rockets from."
Mildred chose her next words carefully. "Yeah, about that, why didn't you use the Hafla to kill the sec men? It carried four rounds. Should have been more than enough. Or do you have a plan cooking?"
"No plan. Just common sense." Disassembling the rifle without looking, Ryan patiently explained to Mildred that armor-piercing weapons were almost useless against troops. The damn rockets went through a heavy steel bulldozer before exploding. Shoot a man, and they would bury themselves underground. Only kill one or two at the most that way. But seal the tunnel and there were no more reinforcements coming. What troops and supplies Leonard had with him was it until they dug free.
"At least we are safe for a while," Doc said, getting himself a cup of coffee.
"But while he's digging in, the others will be digging out," Krysty said, tossing the trash into a receptacle. "We may have only bought a few days."
"More than we had before," Ryan stated, laying aside springs and levers.
"The guy should be delighted we made him baron," Mildred said, rubbing a tired hand over her face. "Unless Strichland was his father or something."
"Blood feud." Jak frowned. "Nasty."
"Can't be." Krysty chewed a brick of gray U.S. Army cheese. "The baron was different, like me, and he wanted to breed a son. So it can't be a member of his family. He didn't have any."
"No, wait," she added, blinking. "A guard did mention something about a boy named Leonard."
"So it's his adopted son who's after us."
A low moan sounded from above, the windows softly rattling.
"I have a theory," Doc rumbled, adding powdered milk and thoughtfully stirring the brew, "that the personnel of our redoubt established this ville. The military hierarchy, the greenhouses, the tunnel in just like our tunnel out."
Jak looked up from scratching at the bandage on his side. "Shit! New redoubt."
"Would explain a lot," Ryan mused, adding a few drops of homogenized oil to the trigger assembly. "And thankfully, they don't know about the real base in the mountains anymore."