Deathlands 51-Rat King

by Axler, James

  The black woman stood without a word, and walked out of the room, between the two sec men. Murphy closed the door, but not before muttering "You just be good" in a sneering tone to those left behind.

  MILDRED WAS TIED to the cane chair, just as Ryan had been. Murphy stood on the edge of the pool of light, partly shrouded by shadow.

  "So what comes next?" Mildred asked with a bravado she didn't really feel. Despite her efforts to quell the uneasiness in her and keep the fear at bay, it crept up on the corners of her mind. Such had been the strength of her dream state under the trank darts that she almost believed Murphy was wearing a Klan hood in the shadows.

  "It's quite simple. We want to know all about you and your friends. Particularly the old fart."

  "You'll have to ask him about that. I don't know squat about him. And what could there be about a black bitch to interest you?" she spit with sarcastic venom.

  Murphy stepped forward into the light. Despite her better intent, Mildred flinched.

  Murphy laughed with sardonic glee. "Oh, I love it. The geeks in R&D are gonna love the way their gadgets worked. Don't worry, I ain't gonna violate you as part of the interrogation. We don't know enough about how rad-blasted your genes are to risk that. But I always say that there ain't nothing that works like good old fashioned pain."

  With a backhand slap he jerked Mildred's head back, the rings on his fingers ripping her flesh. She kept her head back to one side, breathing heavily and trying to conquer the sudden flash of pain and anger.

  Gently Murphy took her chin in his fingers and pulled her head around until he was looking her in the eye.

  "Now, when I had you stripped, we found medical supplies in your pockets. I'd swear that you were a medic of some kind. Is that so?"

  "You're a clever mother, aren't you?" Mildred answered through the taste of blood, mustering as much sarcasm as she could.

  Murphy smiled to himself. "Thought so. That being the case, you won't want those hands of yours damaged in any way, will you? Like losing those nails, for instance?"

  Mildred's stomach lurched. She remembered a book she'd read when she was at college: a history of the French Resistance in World War II. There had been a chapter on Odette, the spy dropped by British intelligence who had been captured by the Gestapo. Part of the torture she endured was to have her fingernails and toenails pulled out by pliers, each one wrenched out by the root, so that the exposed nail bed would remain uncovered. It was, in many ways, such a small thing to do. Yet the pain had been almost unendurable, leaving her unable to walk or use her hands properly for months.

  If this happened to Mildred, not only would it be more pain than she could stand in her current psychological condition, but it would also be a great obstacle to her in any escape attempt.

  Fighting the conditioning, she figured that this was the equivalent of using Dean against his father. What could she lose by telling them about herself at this stage?

  "Well?" Murphy queried. Mildred was unaware that she had been silent for so long.

  "Okay," she said finally, "I'll tell you what you want to know, although you may not believe it."

  IT WENT AS Murphy would have expected. A little pain, the promise of more, and they crumbled. He had to hand it to R&D—the short-term effects of their machines were damn good. Even the mutie woman had given in pretty easily. He hadn't expected it, but had guessed the way to get at her when he mentioned the one-eyed man and noticed how her hair coiled tight around her neck and head. Damn giveaway, those mutie traits…

  The albino hadn't been so easy. He was taciturn and as stubborn as hell. When Murphy first leaned over him to threaten him, the insolent little fart had spit in his face.

  By the time Murphy had finished with him, the albino's hair was running red with his blood, and he had a few more scars on his face to match those that already crisscrossed his pale skin, now hidden beneath red weals and livid scabs.

  And still he'd got nothing from him. Not even his name. That was okay; he knew that from the others.

  The only one he hadn't questioned had been the old man. For reasons best known to himself, the Gen had wanted to do that in his office. All they had was a name: Doc Tanner. It didn't seem much, but when Murphy made his report, Wallace had been excited.

  The Gen had a plan that he didn't want anyone else to know about yet. That was plain to Murphy as he and the two sec men assigned to the prisoners escorted Doc Tanner to the Gen's office. Murphy studied the old man. His eyes, set in a wrinkled and tired face framed by his flowing white hair, seemed to glitter with the same mixture of cunning and madness as Wallace. The thought of the two of them in the same room made Murphy shudder, and he was glad when the Gen ordered him to stay outside.

  The corridor was almost deserted. The maintenance tasks were completed, and the whole redoubt was still on yellow alert, with everyone at their designated posts. Murphy was pleased, as it gave him a more than reasonable excuse to dismiss his sec men, dispatching them back to their posts, and stand guard himself.

  In the empty corridor, Murphy was able to stand guard and also eavesdrop, thankful that Wallace was inclined to raise his voice when excited.

  And boy, was he excited…

  WALLACE FLICKED through Murphy's report as Doc Tanner was left alone with him, standing in the middle of the room with a distracted air as the sec men left.

  "Sit down, Doctor," Wallace said without looking up.

  Doc took a seat opposite the Gen, remarking, "I would assume that there is some particular reason why you wish to interview me yourself, and outside the confines of the hellhole in which my companions have been interrogated."

  Wallace looked up. "Oh, yes, Dr. Tanner. I couldn't risk you being harmed. Not before recycling."

  Doc shuddered. There was something about the way Wallace looked at him as he said it that made a lizard crawl slowly and coldly down his spine.

  The Gen looked down at the report, then picked up a sheaf of paper.

  "There are things about our lives here that only I am aware of, Doctor. We are the only true Americans left, you know—"

  "I can think of some native tribes—remnants of whom survive—who would argue that point," Doc interrupted. Then he added with a gracious gesture, "But I am interrupting you. Pray continue."

  Wallace suppressed his anger and forced a smile before continuing. "In this base we have managed to keep the traditions of the U.S. Army flying high like the Stars and Stripes. We have maintained the American way against the scum outsiders. We were entrusted by our forefathers to keep the research pure, and to maintain the mechanism that this base was created for. Thanks to the great plan, we still have access to many pre-sky-dark records."

  "I am surprised that you use such terms, as cut off as you are," Doc interpolated.

  "We sometimes have contact with some outsider scum in an attempt to keep our gene pool healthy, and thus we have a tendency to pick up some of their slack speech habits. It's regrettable, but inevitable. And please refrain from interrupting me," Wallace added with a warning glare that shot an electric jolt down Doc's spine. There was barely disguised psychosis behind the man's gaze.

  "My apologies," Doc muttered.

  "Very well. As I was about to say, we have records of before the great war between the Reds and the democrats. It is unfortunate that, as time progresses, we find ourselves moving further and further away from the technology of the preskydark era. The good book says recycle, but sometimes there aren't things to recycle with. We improvise, but that is all."

  Doc wondered idly if there was a point to all of this. Then Wallace's words brought him up short.

  "Some of the old comps still work, however, and through them we can access the records of the Totality Concept as a whole, and not just our own role as weapons R&D. And so it was of some interest to me to find out that you were Dr. Theophilus Tanner. The name seemed to me to be familiar. My father, the Gen before me, had an old family tale about my ancestor who was involved with another bra
nch of Totality, a thing called Operation Chronos. Is that familiar, Doctor?"

  Doc reasoned that it was pointless to lie or bluff. "Of course it is," he said as calmly as he could, but already the memories were beginning to flood back, the horror and pain dragging him to the brink of insanity. "You know about the madness that lay at the root of it, the way in which I was dragged away from my beloved Emily and my children and how I was flung forward into the chaos and evil that stalks the Deathlands."

  Wallace studied the papers in front of him in an offhanded manner, seeming not to notice the hysterical pitch creeping into Doc's voice.

  "As a matter of fact, the last reference to you just states that you were projected into the future." He looked at Doc curiously over the top of the paper. "Did you know that you were the only success? Quite remarkable."

  "There are other words for it."

  "I'm not really interested in your opinions. Only your survival. It just so happens that a vital component in one of our machines has broken down for the last time. There are no repairs that can be made to it, so we need a replacement part. You can be of some use to us."

  "I? How can I be of use?" Doc scoffed. "An old man out of time, prone to fits of melancholy and madness? What do I know of machines?"

  "Perhaps more than you know," Wallace said softly. "As soon as you and your companions arrived, I knew you would be of some use. Your great age brings the necessary wisdom. The fact that you are who you are is an unexpected bonus. For that reason you will live. If you agree to help, then your companions will also live. If not…" Wallace shrugged.

  Doc's face cracked wryly. "You hardly give me a choice. So be it."

  Wallace nodded. "Good. I will get Sarj Murphy and his guard to escort you back to your companions until we're ready for you."

  As the Gen bellowed Murphy's name, and the chief sec man opened the door, Doc wondered what horrors awaited him.

  Chapter Seven

  "Stupe move. Never give anything."

  Jak's sharp opinion was echoed by Dean, who shook his head when Doc, safely returned to the dormitory by Murphy, told them of the outcome of his interview with Wallace. It amused Doc that Murphy, obviously still remembering Panner's fate, had kept his blaster trained on him from five yards distance, not allowing the old man any scope for an attempted assault.

  "I disagree," Mildred said. "The crazy old buzzard has done nothing more than buy us time, but at least he's done that."

  Doc inclined his head. "I shall accept that with the graciousness that you no doubt intended," he murmured.

  "You're both right," Ryan snapped. "It was stupe in some ways, but what else could Doc do? What we need now is to work out how we get out of here."

  The one-eyed warrior surveyed his friends. His biggest concern was the lasting effects of the psychological weapons they had endured. Physically they weren't in too bad shape. His balls still hurt like hell, but the rest of his wounds were nothing more than abrasions and bruising. Running and fighting would make his balls feel like they were about to fall off, but he could stand that if it was a choice between resting them and being chilled.

  J.B. and Mildred were in a similar condition. Minor abrasions, nothing more. When Ryan mentioned his own injuries, J.B. winced, so he, too, may be slowed by the injuries inflicted by the cane seat. They would have to take that into account. It could make the split-second difference between escape and buying the farm.

  Dean had been left more or less alone, his "reward" for telling Murphy who he was, Ryan figured. Doc was okay. That was a weird one. What did these coldhearts have in mind for him? Old tech could mean anything, if it was still working.

  Ryan looked across the room at Krysty, who was lying on a bed, trying to get some sleep. She was bruised and had a split lip where Murphy had whipped her with that ring hand he loved to use. Ryan idly wondered if he would have an opportunity to cut it off and ram it up the sec man's ass before they left. It was only a passing thought. Revenge was a luxury they couldn't afford.

  It was Jak who worried Ryan most. He was a born fighter, with reserves of stamina and strength that belied his slender frame. But Murphy had enjoyed working on Jak. His face was marked with new scars and scabs, his lips swollen and one eye totally obscured where the flesh had puffed and discolored. His body had mostly been left alone, but he, too, had been tortured on the cane chair, and at one point he remembered being cut loose and kicked across the floor of the interrogation cell. Mildred had examined him and had found no evidence of broken bones, but she was concerned that he might have a hairline fracture of at least one rib that could cause problems.

  Jak caught Ryan's stare with his one good eye. He seemed to know what Ryan was thinking.

  "We break, leave me if slow us up."

  "You know better than that, Jak," Ryan said, but it was what he would have said in the circumstances. It was what any of them would have said.

  But he'd be damned if he'd do it.

  Ryan sank back on his bed. Now to wait.

  It was Wallace's move.

  IT WAS HARD to know how much time had passed. No one had a wrist chron, as they had all been taken away, and the seconds dragged. J.B. in particular found his fingers itching without blasters to strip and clean, ammo to indent and grens to check. Jak was lost without his leaf-bladed knives to clean and practice throwing.

  The only members of the party who seemed not to notice the time passing were Mildred and Doc, both of whom were lost in their own thoughts. Mildred was still trying to exorcise the ghost of the Klan that now haunted her dreams, while Doc was lost in some reverie of jumbled memories, the labyrinthine twists of which only he could follow.

  Ryan mentally ran through methods of escape. Every scenario he could imagine was played out in his mind, trying to weigh the odds and take into account their debilitated physical condition and lack of weapons.

  Each time he came up with the same observation— things were going to be tough, and chance would play a big factor in their success or failure. Ryan had been a fighting man long enough to know how big a role chance could play…for either side.

  If only he could think of a way to shorten those odds in his favor…

  His train of thought was cut short by Dean's sudden complaint about his grumbling stomach.

  "I guess it is some time since they last fed us," Krysty replied. "Time does fly by when you're having fun, doesn't it?"

  Ryan grinned. "Guess Dean's just a growing boy."

  "Aw, Dad…"

  "Ah, but you must feed the inner child," Doc chided, joining in the ribbing. "After all—"

  But Doc's comment was to be forever lost as he was interrupted by the click of the lock, and the door swung open. Murphy was standing in the doorway, a small blaster in his left fist. J.B. noted that it was 9 mm Beretta, and was blue rather than matte black. Not standard Army issue, most likely an heirloom handed down Murphy's family line. It looked pristine. Murphy may be a bastard, but J.B. couldn't help admiring the care he took of his blaster.

  It was something the sergeant had to have imparted to the sec men under him, as the two soldiers flanking the man also had blasters that looked to be in pristine condition. Whereas the sec men they had previously encountered had been armed with 9 mm Heckler & Koch MP-5 K blasters, these sec men had Uzi's. The H&K was a handier blaster, more compact, but J.B. had a soft spot for the Uzi. Always reliable, and quite deadly at short range.

  Especially if well maintained. And these blasters were gleaming. If the rest of the armory was this well maintained, then J.B. would have given anything to see it.

  Murphy, surveying the room, had noticed J.B.

  "Mr. Dix," he said, "I must apologize for the manner in which you were questioned earlier. In war there is no time for niceties. And we've been at war for a long time now. I have to say, boy, that you are a man after my own heart. You care about your weaponry, and realize that the key to any effective defense is the maintenance of a good armory. I salute you, sir."

  "Nic
e words, but they don't get me shit," the Armorer replied.

  Murphy bellowed a loud belly laugh. "Right on! Okay, you people, face up. Your belongings are to be returned to you—without your weapons, of course—and the Gen will give you the lowdown on our outfit and why you're needed…especially you, old man," he added, nodding in Doc's direction.

  "You need all that firepower just to talk to us and tell us that?" Krysty asked.

  Murphy inclined his head. "Lady, you may be a mutie, but even you should have worked that one out I'll bet Mr. Dix here has it sussed."

  J.B. fixed Murphy with a stare. "If you mean what I figure, mebbe it means that you respect us too much to take chances."

  "Damn, but you're a sensible man." Murphy smiled. "It's a pity you're not one of us. I could really work with someone like you. Okay. In five minutes you'll be ready to move out."

  With that, Murphy stepped back and nodded to his right. Two orderlies with the slack jaws of inbreeding shuffled forward carrying piles of clothing, which they flung into the room. One of them grabbed the door handle and pulled it shut.

  "Hurry up y'all, just five minutes," was Murphy's parting shot as the door slammed.

  THEY WERE READY IN LESS.

  All were glad to get into their familiar clothes, rather than the standard-issue Army underwear they had found when they had first awakened. Doc greeted his frock coat like an old friend, but bemoaned the lack of his walking stick.

  "Not expect everything," Jak remarked as he hunted through his patchwork jacket for any of the leaf-bladed knives that might have been overlooked.

  The sec men had been as thorough as could have been expected, once bitten.

  Now they had their wrist chrons back, Ryan noted that it was almost five minutes to the second when the door burst open, and Wallace walked into the room. He entered without taking any precautions, and with the air of a man who was used to his every word being obeyed. In his own kingdom he had no need to be careful. Behind him Murphy and a troop of four sec men kept the Gen covered.

  "Listen up, people," Wallace intoned. "We need your man Dr. Theophilus Tanner to assist us in our work, which must continue for the day when the Reds will rise again. Make no mistake, those Russkie Reds are cunning bastards and may just be lying low. In return for the doctor's help, you'll be allowed to stay here and stay alive. There's always a need to recycle, and you'll all be useful sooner or later—"