Zero City

by James Axler

  Leaning way over, Doc pumped a few rounds from the LeMat their way, blowing a slat out of the bench and sending a bald sec man down for the count. The group broke ranks and fled, firing wildly in return. A chance ricochet chipped the stone lintel of the roof and bit his upper arm.

  Staggering back, Doc dropped the LeMat and tried to staunch the wound with his handkerchief. There was little blood, the wound didn't hurt much and his fingers could still move, which meant a small-caliber bullet that hadn't hit bone or artery. Thank God, just a flesh wound. The sick feeling in his stomach was just a natural reaction to being hurt. Perfectly ordinary. However, he knew that the numbness would soon wear off and his arm would ache like the dickens. He had to move fast.

  "Come on, Theophilus," he granted, trying not to pay attention to the red stain spreading down his shirt. "No pain, no gain."

  Biting a corner of the cloth, Doc managed to tie off the wound, then slid his cold right hand into his belt to help keep it still. Clumsily lifting the powerful .44 LeMat revolver in his bloody left hand, Doc experimented with the weight, trying to get a feel and balance for the weapon again. The stickiness was making things awkward, but he felt confident if the target was close enough he could handle the handcannon. Well, hopefully.

  Unfortunately, there was no way he could reload now, or even change the selector pin to discharge the shotgun. Five more rounds and he was out. Feeling a bit dizzy, Doc sat on the concrete roof and tried to catch his breath.

  He just could not faint, he thought. He could not die yet. He had to stay awake.

  WHILE THE BARON'S TROOPS peppered the defenders with steady blasterfire, a sec man sneaking along the wall of the pawnshop lurched forward and hurled himself at a ground-floor window of the government building. The glass shattered and he fell back, bleeding from a dozen spots. The nails sticking through the wooden boards covering the inside of the window now dripped with his blood. Then from the opposite side of the building, another man stumbled into view, an eye dangling on his cheek, blood pumping from his wounds with every heartbeat.

  In an alleyway between a paint store and a ramshackle garage, Leonard stood on a box behind a metal trash bin and watched the battle. His personal guards, the last members of the Wolf Pack, stood close to the youth to protect him from ricochets or any other dangers.

  The young baron smiled as his men charged the building again, then frowned as they retreated, clothes smoking, faces bleeding and with more bodies lying on the ground. He had no idea if they were killing any of the people inside the building, but his men were being slaughtered. He was already down to twenty men in a matter of minutes. Who were these people?

  "Enough!" the teenager stated, and turned to the men beside him. "Okay, Jarmal, we gave it a try. But this is going nowhere. Burn them out."

  "My lord, this is the dry season," the captain said patiently for the tenth time in an hour. "We could lose the whole city, and the flames could even spread to the ville. The river has caught fire before."

  "Damn the river, damn the ville and damn you!" Leonard shouted. "I want those people dead. Do you understand? Dead at any cost!"

  Touching the blaster on his belt, Jarmal debated killing the teenager right here and claiming it was a chance shot from the defenders. But the Wolf Pack watched him with knowing faces, their autofire blasters already drawn. It would be best to get the young baron mixed into the fighting, then Jarmal could safely frag the lunatic. Most of the sec men stayed loyal because of the food, and the threat of the Machine being used on their families. They wouldn't give a shit about who was in charge. But the Wolf Pack and others followed the baron because he gave them the authority to kill in safety, allowed them to wallow like drunkards in human blood. Cowards hiding behind a madman. But cowards with blasters who were damn good shots. Perhaps an assassination wasn't going to work.

  Jarmal snapped a salute. "Yes, my lord. Of course. At once, Baron."

  The boy seemed to notice a difference in the sec man, then dismissed it, attributing the change to combat. Killing made some men uneasy. Personally, he enjoyed it immensely. "How many Molotov cocktails do we have?"

  "Only the six, my lord. Lots more bottles but no more fuel. This is every drop that survived the alley fire."

  "More than enough. Take your strongest men and firebomb the front door and roof simultaneously. Let's see them stop that!" Leonard scoffed in triumph. "Ha!"

  "If this fails, sir, will we leave?" Jarmal asked.

  "Wh-what was that?" the youth asked in a hoarse whisper.

  "Leave. Depart. Go. We're getting slaughtered and for no reason!"

  The teenager stared. "Are you mad? They killed my father!"

  "After he kidnapped and almost raped the woman." Then, unable to stop the words, Jarmal said, "The crazy old bastard had it coming for years! Served him right!"

  Leonard grabbed his blaster, then released the weapon. "Captain, you're relieved of rank," the new baron said in an icy tone. "You will lead the troops in the next rush on the building. Take his blasters."

  The Wolf Pack closed on the man, and under the muzzles of their blasters he was stripped of weapons.

  "Haven't got the guts to just shoot me here, eh?" Jarmal snarled, with nothing more to lose. "That's a death sentence and you know it."

  Calmly, the youth returned to watching the losing battle. "Do as you are told, or your children will beg for the mercy of the Machine."

  Sporadic blasterfire continued from the building, and the sec men shot back from behind mailboxes, vending machines and inside the paint store.

  "How did we ever let you get in charge?" Jarmal asked woodenly. "What the fuck were we thinking? You're worse than Gunther."

  Leonard smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment. Now go die."

  "You heard the boss—git," one of the Wolf Pack said, sneering, jabbing the former captain with a rifle. "And make us proud, or else I'll take care of your wife myself."

  "Mebbe we will anyway," another stated, and the rest agreed, making vulgar suggestions.

  Outraged, Jarmal tensed to charge them, then forced himself to calm down. Ignoring their catcalls and taunts, he turned on his heel and marched into the ranks of the sec men. Too furious to think clearly, Jarmal almost registered surprise when somebody pressed a knife into his hand. Keeping his expression neutral, he slid the weapon away quickly. Then a revolver was slapped into his palm, and the troops closed around their old sergeant, hiding him from sight as he checked the load on the blaster and tucked it into his shirt.

  "You there, Private," Leonard snapped, crossing his arms and posing as if on the display in the ville and not in the middle of a firefight.

  The sec man turned slowly. "Sir?" he managed to croak.

  "You're in charge now. Firebomb that rad-blasted pit into rubble!"

  "Yes, sir," the sec man replied with a salute. If the baron noticed it was with his forbidden left hand, he didn't comment on the fact.

  Shouting orders over the blasterfire, the new captain directed men to take positions and six Molotov cocktails soared into the air. Two of the bottles streaked right into the open front of the building, spreading fire across the metal cabinets. The other four arched high, going for the rooftop.

  STRUGGLING TO STAY CONSCIOUS, Doc jerked awake as he saw the Molotovs soaring through the cloudy sky. As he grabbed the blaster with both hands, fresh blood gushed from his wound, but the old man took careful aim and fired the LeMat again and again. The first shot missed completely. So did the second. But the third and fourth hit. Two of the bottles burst in midair, forming burning blossoms that rained harmlessly to the ground. The third Molotov impacted dangerously near Doc, and he dragged himself away, the gasoline spreading across the concrete but finding no pursuit to feed the hungry flames. The fourth hit the skylight and shattered, raining fire and glass into the building. The burning debris landed on the curtains and barbed wire of the third floor. But dry as dust, the predark cloth instantly ignited and the interior of the structure was harshly ill
uminated with hellish light. Soon red-hot embers floated downward, drifting harmlessly onto the terrazzo floors, and elevator cage. But several reached the first floor. Now only yards away from the basement, tendrils of smoke rose from the hot flakes on the carpeting, tiny glowing specks that pulsed with every breeze as if living things.

  GRABBING THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER from the wall niche, Krysty sprayed carbon dioxide foam over the whole expanse of the material. The canister died quickly, but all of the hot spots were quenched. However, more and more embers were drifting downward. Already the woman could see huge sections of bare wire above, the strands snapping from the accumulated heat. The next Molotov would drop through, falling straight to the basement, and she had nothing but blasters to stop the advance of the deadly fire.

  "THEY'RE NOT TRYING for a capture anymore," Ryan snarled, coughing from the thick clouds of smoke blowing in over the barricade. It reeked of the drain cleaner, and he tried his best not to breathe any of the bluish smoke directly. Who knew what it would do to his lungs.

  Fanning himself with the fedora, J.B. said, "How about we make a run for it? Try and lure them to the library and set the muties free?"

  "Too far," Jak said, slapping shut the cylinder of his reloaded blaster.

  The temperature was rising fast from the two fires. Ryan wiped the sweat off his brow with a sleeve and glanced around the building, counting their options. They were low on ammo, with no more bombs, missiles or grenades. The building was on fire, and surrounded by the enemy who wouldn't consider a surrender. The stairs were clear. They could reach the roof easily and jump to the pawnshop, but then what? There was no way across that street without the sec men seeing them, and night was hours away.

  "Can't sit here," Jak drawled, brushing an ember off his sleeve. The crackling of the fire was getting louder, as the flames found new fuel in the floor tiles and wall paneling.

  "What do you want to do, charge them?" Jak hawked and spit to clear his throat. "Element surprise."

  "Sure as shit would surprise me," J.B. agreed angrily.

  "J.B., what did you mean nothing was ready?" Ryan asked brusquely.

  The Armorer took a moment to mentally shift gears. "You mean the stuff downstairs? Well, I have some poison-gas bombs cooking, but they're still green. Wouldn't make a kitten ill. Tomorrow, they will be lethal as a nuke."

  "Tomorrow isn't today. Would they smoke much?"

  "You mean now? Sure. But it's just smoke." Jak barked a laugh. "Once burned, twice shy." Sidestepping some embers, J.B. grinned. "They'll think it's another sandstorm gag, us attacking under cover of the smoke."

  "Work?" Jak asked pointedly.

  "Better," Ryan said, starting for the stairs.

  MINUTES PASSED as Leonard watched the fire spread throughout the building, a thick plume of smoke rising into the sky. Then he gasped as a barrage of glass bottles came hurtling from the roof to loudly crash on the street. He flinched, expecting gouts of flame from Molotovs to erupt at each impact. But instead, volumes of grayish-green smoke flowed from the puddles. Billowing clouds of smoke filled the street, flooding into the alleyway and stores. Suddenly, a volley of blasterfire erupted from the defenders. In horror, the young baron realized it was a deadly repeat of the fight at the bank. Visibility dropped to zero, and the sec men started to pull back, unwilling to chance contact with the dense smoke.

  "Attack!" Leonard shouted, pounding on the garbage bin. "Attack now, you stinking cowards!"

  The desert breeze was already starting to thin the chem fog, and so the sec men slowly began to advance into the dark clouds, disappearing from view. Drawing his own blaster, the baron waited impatiently for the sounds of combat to renew when somebody coughed a few more times in the alleyway behind him.

  "Shut up, fools," he snapped irritably. "It's only smoke." But then something hot and hard pressed painfully against the back of his head.

  "Freeze," Ryan ordered, grabbing a fistful of hair to hold the youth motionless. "Tell your men to stop attacking and start shoveling sand."

  "What?"

  "Put out the fire!"

  Breathing hard, Leonard glanced down and through the thinning clouds of smoke. He could see the still forms of his bodyguards lying on the ground, most of their heads missing.

  "Who the hell are you?" he asked through clenched teeth.

  Ryan shook the teenager hard. "Doesn't matter. Give the order to your men, or I'll blow your fucking brains out."

  "I don't think so," Leonard said smoothly, sensing a weakness to exploit. "You need my men, so I stay alive. What with the fire, your bitch is trapped in there?"

  Ryan wasted a live round jacking the slide so the noise would startle the man. "Last chance."

  "And then I die anyway," the teenager retorted, shaking with restrained fury. "Fuck you. Go ahead, chill me!"

  A thunderous report shook the alleyway, and Leonard jerked free of Ryan's startled grip. Stumbling off his box, the teenager staggered against the garbage bin, and from out of the smoke strode Jarmal, the blaster in his hand bucking and jumping as he emptied it.

  "That's for my daughter," Jarmal said, reloading as he strode forward. "Your father took her when she was twelve. Twelve years old!"

  "My sympathies," Ryan snapped. "Order the men to put out the fire."

  The big man swung about, the pitted maws of their deadly weapons now aimed at each other. Time passed in tense silence. The thinning smoke exposed the group of sec men on the sidewalk, and the burning building across the street. Grips on weapons were shifted as the men waited for a sign of what was happening.

  "Ryan," Jarmal said on impulse.

  The one-eyed man narrowed his gaze. "You know me?"

  "No. Heard of you in a tale around a campfire."

  "And who are you?"

  "Uther Jarmal."

  "The new baron," Ryan said.

  He almost smiled. "Looks like."

  "Give the order. Fast."

  "Why? Let it burn, you're safe out here."

  "My business."

  The former sergeant locked gazes with the Deathlands warrior. "You have a man trapped." It wasn't a question.

  Ryan debated on responses and chose the truth. "Yeah."

  "Everything is for sale," the man prompted.

  "Blasters," Ryan spit.

  "Got lots. And more food than you'll ever see."

  "The Hummer."

  "Your wag? No thanks."

  Watching the growing conflagration, Ryan racked his brain for a bargaining tool. "I know the secret location of the last six live muties," he said in desperation.

  Jarmal narrowed his eyes. "Bull."

  Knowing it was time to go for broke, Ryan lowered his pistol. The sec men seemed stunned.

  "This is how much I want the fire out and my son saved," Ryan stated, holstering the piece. "How bad you want those things dead?"

  "Your son?"

  "One of my girls had red hair," a sec man said, hatefully gazing at Leonard. "I joined the guards to try to get close enough to his father to ace the freak."

  "Me, too," said another.

  Ten long seconds ticked by before the new baron slowly lowered his blaster and tucked it in his belt. "Bucket brigade!" he shouted. "You, you and you! Get some metal pails from the paint store. The rest of you gleebs form a line from the street and start throwing like you mean it!"

  "Hey!"

  Everybody turned. The rest of the companions stumbled out of the pawnshop, Dean wrapped in a blanket and tenderly cradled in Mildred's arms.

  "Hot pipe, what's going on?" Dean asked weakly, blinking at the dim daylight.

  Epilogue

  A week later, dust devils danced along the sandy street in front of the pawnshop as the companions loaded Dean into the rear cargo area of the Hummer. The desert winds were starting to increase once more, and they wanted to leave before the next storm arrived. Next door, the government building was gone, just another blackened hole in the ground like the skyscraper.

  "You oka
y?" Mildred asked, tucking the blankets tighter around the boy.

  "Headache," he whispered. "Did I really fall through the skylight? Don't remember."

  Sliding behind the steering wheel, Ryan glanced at the physician in concern.

  "A common reaction to head traumas," Mildred said soothingly. "Nothing to worry about."

  "Damn straight you did," the elder Cawdor replied. "Fell four stories. Good thing you landed on your head."

  Dean chuckled, then abruptly stopped. "What's that smell?"

  "Food," Jak said, munching on an apple. "Bushels of food. Corn, tomatoes, beans, lots of taters."

  "The word is potato," Doc corrected, wiggling into the back seat, a canvas sack on his lap.

  "You peel, you name."

  A smile. "I see your point, Young Jak. Taters it is."

  The albino teen grunted in victory.

  Curiously, Dean reached out to touch one of the baskets stacked nearby. It was made of reed and seemed to be filled with live lizards. "Meat, too," he said, astonished. "But where did it come from?"

  "We caught the lizards," J.B. said, snuggling next to Mildred. "It's easy once you know how."

  "And we traded with the local baron for the vegetables," Krysty said, climbing into the passenger seat.

  "Oh, yeah. The blasters."

  "Actually, no," Ryan stated, starting the engine. "He had lots of those. We traded with something he didn't have, and wanted very much. J.B.'s formula for smoke bombs."

  "Knowledge is power," the wiry man beamed, adjusting his glasses.

  "So we staying here for a while?" Dean asked.

  Ryan eased off the brake and slipped the wag into gear. "Can't. There was some trouble. We're not on a chill list, but we aren't welcome any longer, either."

  "Oh." The boy thought about that. "So what about the mutie? Is it dead? Who runs that ville? Did we… could—"

  "Enough. Sleep," Mildred ordered, pressing a finger to his lips. "We're going to the redoubt for a while, let you rest and get your strength back. Tell you all about it there."