Strontium Swamp

by James Axler

  “Pretty difficult to get past, eh?” Prideaux whispered to the Armorer. “Stupe thing is, where they’ve got the old buildings inside there repaired and running, they still shit in the old way, which means it uses the old sewers, which means that Jean should have them guarded ’cause he knows they’re there. But he don’t.”

  “Arrogant bastard probably thinks that no one is as smart as him, and wouldn’t think of it,” Ryan mused. “Seen that kind of attitude before. You certain about this?” He fixed Prideaux with a searching glare.

  “Yeah, sure as I can be. Wasn’t me that found it, it was Marissa. She was keen for us to go under, but we weren’t having any of it, y’know?”

  “That sound about right,” Jak muttered.

  “So you haven’t actually been into the ville?” Ryan asked.

  Prideaux shook his head. “Been into the end of the old sewer, but never came up in the ville. Know how to, though. Saw that much.”

  Ryan looked up at the imposing walls and the sec posts from his position in the shadows. It was risky, but at least it gave them a chance.

  “Let’s do it,” he said simply.

  Giving no more than a backward glance to the imposing walls of the ville, Ryan and the others followed Prideaux and LaRue as they scouted around the ruined buildings on the edge of the ville. Dr. Jean hadn’t bothered to clear a defensive open space between his entrenchments and the old city, so they were able to move easily within the shadow of the wall and still keep in cover. Yet again, it was a sign of the man’s arrogance.

  They moved out, away from the ville, for about a quarter mile, before Prideaux halted them. “Down here,” he whispered, moving through a narrow alleyway until their sense of smell told them they were near their goal.

  At the end of the alley, the asphalt had been broken and the ruptured sewer had risen up in a land movement, the broken concrete pipe breaking surface, the tip of it visible above street level.

  “Fireblast, there must be one hell of a buildup of shit at the bottom of that,” Ryan said, not without a little trepidation.

  LaRue’s face creased into a grin. “Don’t worry, my friend. It’s not as bad as that. It runs back from here and into another pipe at a junction about fifty yards that away.” He pointed to the wall of another ruined building. “So it goes under there.”

  “That’s some kind of consolation, I guess,” J.B. stated. “So who goes first?”

  Prideaux and LaRue, holding the torches, squeezed themselves into the narrow channel between the top of the pipe and the road surface, half falling, half scrambling down the length of the pipe until they reached the bottom. Ryan went next, followed by J.B., and finally by Jak. They descended into darkness, desperately feeling under hands and feet for something to slow their descent, trying to keep balance when it became hard to know which way was up.

  At the bottom of the pipe, with the illumination of the torches, it was easy to see what their route would be. The concrete pipes had a five-and-a-half-foot circumference, requiring J.B. and Ryan to stoop as they progressed. For the smaller swamp dwellers and Jak, it was an easy avenue of progress.

  The sewer stank: not as badly as might have been expected, as it was built for a larger ville—the old city of Lafayette—than even Dr. Jean had managed to amass, but still enough to cause them to breathe shallowly, and through their mouths when possible, to avoid a gag reaction to the stench. It wasn’t until they’d walked a hundred yards, past the first junction of the pipe, and the incline they had entered through leveled out fully, that they hit the flow of sewage, and the rats.

  The light from the torches, hissing and spluttering from the alcohol poured on them, was enough to drive all but the most adventurous of the rodents into the farthest reaches of the gloom, squealing and seeking relief for their suddenly tortured eyes. Those that came near to investigate the intruders into their realm were driven away by a well-placed kick. The smell of the alcohol, as the torches burned brighter, also served to mask some of the smell.

  Wordlessly, using only gestures, Prideaux and LaRue guided the three companions through the maze of concrete tunnels, following the flow of sewage that came from the enclosed ville. It was easy to see the point at which they moved under the wall, as the concrete suddenly came alive with a flow of stinking water and solids, whereas before they had seen empty and long dry pipes, with just the one main flow out from the enclosed ville.

  “Okay, now that we’re in the ville, how do we get up there?” Ryan whispered to the two swamp dwellers, jerking his thumb upward and keeping his voice down, noting how sound traveled in the pipes.

  “Along here,” LaRue replied, beckoning them on. They walked through the flow for another fifty yards until they came to a ladder set into a narrow tunnel that shot upward from the pipe.

  Ryan looked up. There was a metal cover over the top of the tunnel.

  “What’s past that?” he whispered.

  “Most of ’em along here you can’t trust, but this one comes up in a yard behind one of the buildings. Dunno what they do in there, but Marissa said it was empty at night, so no one can see you come out.”

  “How d’you know it’s the right one?” Ryan asked suspiciously. Prideaux grinned and pointed to the rounded wall of the pipe, by the side of the ladder’s bottom rungs. An X was scratched into the concrete, a dull rusty color in the indent made by a blade of some kind.

  “Marissa did that. Even put her own blood in to colour it,” the ponytailed man said with an evil grin.

  Ryan decided to take first crack at the ladder, but Jak stopped him. The albino knew that his eyes were better adjusted to the lack of light, and he also knew that his reflexes were quicker. Ryan was fast, but Jak’s were honed to an almost preternatural state. And that might just make all the difference between getting out alive and being chilled.

  Jak estimated that the sewers were sunk to about fifteen feet below the surface, counting it off as he ascended the ladder, feeling the cold concrete closing around him, the light from the torches receding. The air got close and stale as he reached the iron covering at the head of the ladder. Reaching up experimentally, he put a hand to it, testing the weight. It was heavy, but it gave easily. He drew his Colt Python with his free hand, leaning his back against the cold concrete, using his balance as a lever to push against the metal. It moved, and as he slid it back, he cautiously raised his head, taking a look around for as near to 360 degrees as he could manage in this position.

  Marissa had been right. The tunnel brought them up into the courtyard of a building that was currently empty. The remaining three sides were walled to a height of about twelve feet. There was noise coming from beyond these walls, but inside—and in the building—all was quiet. The atmosphere of dread oppression was, however, worse than Jak had felt before. It was like a physical force, hitting him in the chest.

  They would have to watch how that made them feel and react. Jak pulled the metal cover back and slid down the ladder. He rapidly filled in the details for the others, then ascended once more, this time dragging himself out into the yard, and standing cover for the other four as they lifted themselves out of the sewer. Prideaux and LaRue came last, extinguishing their torches in the effluent flow and wedging them in the bottom of the ladder for their return.

  When all five of the recce party were above ground, and the sewer cover was back in place, they made their way across the yard to the building. It was a four-story construction, with a metal fire escape up the rear and double doors that were unlocked.

  “Feels empty,” Jak whispered. “Not hear anything inside. Move slow, frosty.”

  Ryan nodded, and let Jak lead the way into the building. It was used a dormitory by the look of it. Beds were arranged neatly across the floor, and all were empty. Otherwise, it was Spartan, with no signs of any individuality to break up the uniform monotony of the bare walls and beds. A glass storefront, whitewashed, led onto the street beyond.

  “Workers quarters?” J.B. questioned.

&n
bsp; “Yeah, but what are they working on?” Ryan replied.

  There was only one way to find out. They made their way to the front of the building, and Jak opened the door a crack.

  “Man, I should be back in that sewer, I shake so bad,” Prideaux murmured. “Nerves, man, nerves.”

  “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ scared, too, but there ain’t no way back right now,” LaRue growled at him.

  Ryan and J.B. exchanged looks. They didn’t want the swamp dwellers giving out on them. It would be an extra worry they could do without.

  “Lot of people out there, and not look like sec,” Jak whispered. “Figure we keep blasters hidden, be triple red, we could get by.”

  Ryan was relieved. He, too, had wondered if the strange colors worn by the sec were a uniform maintained across the ville. If so, they would have real problems. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be the case. He could feel the atmosphere, like a pounding in his gut. It welled up in him, but he suppressed the urge to panic.

  “Okay, let’s do this. Just be casual, keep clear of any sec patrols, move with the crowds, and don’t talk unless we have to. Stick close, and ignore that gnawing in your gut. Guess we’ve all got it, and it’s something to do with Jean. But keep it calm, and we can do this.”

  He nodded to Jak, who pulled open the door enough for them to slip out onto the sidewalk.

  And into a strange world that seemed to operate in the night as though it were day.

  The enclosed ville had obviously been built at a time when Dr. Jean had a smaller population. The streets were now teeming with people, all of whom had a slightly distant look in their eyes, and moved as though floating. The streets were lit by the old streetlamps, restored and powered by a powerful generator. It was almost bright enough to be day on the sidewalk.

  All the traffic was pedestrian, and despite their distant look and languid movements, all the pedestrians seemed to be moving with a sense of purpose. There were a few traders who had wares for sale, but as the recce party walked the streets, adopting the same pace as those around them, they could see that Dr. Jean had, for the most part, established some kind of centralized system whereby food, clothing and weapons were dealt out from large storefront concerns staffed by people in the distinctive colors of the sec force. There was evidence of the use of electrical devices from predark ages, and he had a primitive vid system operating, with screen on street corners preaching his message of coming together against the outsider, the different, and crushing them if they didn’t want to conform.

  It all confirmed the notion that he had a strong supply of old tech spirited in from somewhere.

  He also had one hell of an ego on him. The walls were covered with paintings and murals, and the street corners adorned with statues, all of the same man. Without asking, it was obvious that this was Dr. Jean. A tall, light-skinned black man, he was broad across the shoulders and had a wide girth. He was a man mountain. And even in representations of him, the authority in his strong, square jaw and piercing round eyes was obvious. He was depicted in a number of heroic poses, routing his enemies.

  Drifting with the mass of the population, they found themselves moved into a central square. Here, at one end, a number of banners with Jean’s image hung over fires that burned incense and spices that filled the air with a seductive yet insidious smell—the smell of incipient evil. The oppressive atmosphere, heightened by the chanting of the acolytes who drifted in, made prayers and obeisance to the altar, and then moved out, was almost tangible. Fear, hatred, evil…all of these. The feeling of absolute power, and absolute corruption.

  The recce party had so far felt that they had moved unobserved among the ville dwellers. But now it was different. It was like an animal instinct in the square: if you were apart from the pack, then they could sniff you out.

  Jak and Ryan noticed that they were getting more and more glances from those who watched them pass, and the glances grew more and more hostile. It was as though they stood out more here, where the atmosphere of the ville was heightened and the senses of the ville dwellers were likewise sharpened. Their hands tightened on their hidden blasters. Ryan had left the Steyr back at the swamp settlement, choosing only the SIG-Sauer and panga because they could be easily concealed. Jak’s Magnum revolver was always as well-concealed as his knives.

  J.B. had his mini-Uzi, and his M-4000 was concealed by the long coat he wore for this trip. The two swamp dwellers carried handblasters for ease of concealment, eschewing their regular shotguns.

  But even with their hidden hardware, they were outnumbered to such a degree that it would only be a matter of taking some with them rather than escaping in a firefight.

  “Trouble at four o’clock,” J.B. whispered.

  Looking over to where the Armorer indicated, Jak and Ryan could see a sec party—noticeable by its distinctive colors—making its way through the crowd, heading straight for them.

  Chapter Ten

  “Fireblast! We need to get the hell out here. That way,” Ryan commanded, taking in what was happening with a single scan of the area. The sec party making its way toward them was coming from one direction, and from all around they were starting to attract more and more hostile looks—but there was no sign of any other sec. If Ryan took them in the opposite direction, forging their way through the crowd, they could reach one of the exits from the square and try to lose themselves in the side streets—assuming, of course, that there were no other sec parties making their way toward the square from any of the other exits.

  Only one way to find out. The recce party forged its way through the crowd, picking up its pace as the sec party located them by sight and began to increase the speed of its own progress. It wasn’t hard for them to locate the recce party, as they were pushing their way past people who looked at them with blank eyes that were turning to hatred and even confusion as they were barged out of the way. The wake they created of jostling, shouting people could be easily seen in the otherwise calm and hypnotized environment of the shrine. But at least the disturbed people were less easy in giving way to the next force trying to part them, even though it was their own sec.

  All members of the recce party now had their blasters to hand and were waving them to part the crowd. The people, despite their hostility, seemed reluctant to draw and fire in the square—if it was some kind of shrine to Dr. Jean, as seemed likely, then by the same token this could be a kind of sacrilege—and parted as the handblasters were made visible. Ryan hoped that they wouldn’t have to fire yet—no knowing when and how often they would have to fire once they were in the streets, and they didn’t have an infinite amount of ammo or time to reload at leisure.

  Riding their luck, they reached one of the side streets, charged out of the square and into the thoroughfare. Once again the people parted, despite having blasters of their own, and there seemed to be an air of shock about them. Perhaps it was unusual for such dissent to be shown inside the walls.

  Ryan had two great concerns: first, they were in a different street to the one they had used to enter the square, so they had no idea where they were in relation to their escape route. Second, if there were vid screens on the street corners broadcasting the glories of Dr. Jean, then it was also possible that among his old tech he had vid cameras that could be used to spy the streets. In which case, they were in trouble, as the sec force would be able to trace their movements and close on them.

  “Where the fuck are we going?” LaRue yelled breathlessly. The potbellied swamp dweller was having trouble keeping up.

  “Away,” Ryan answered shortly. “Worry about it later.”

  In truth, things looked bleak. They were five men alone in enemy territory, with the possibility that they could be easily tracked. Certainly, if the sec party had fought its way through the confused crowd and into the streets, they could follow the recce party by the trail of angry residents left in its wake. And yet, despite the fact that everyone seemed to be armed, they had encountered no blasterfire.

  That, allied to
the attitude in the square, got J.B. thinking.

  “Jak, know where we’ve got to go?” he yelled as they pounded along the road, scattering the confused residents.

  “Come in due east, go out northwest—yeah, can figure it,” the albino rapped back. Unlike the others, he wasn’t even short of breath.

  “You do it, we’ll follow,” the Armorer gasped, feeling his heart pounding in time with his footsteps.

  “Got an idea?” Ryan asked, drawing breath into his aching lungs.

  “Mebbe,” the Armorer replied enigmatically. That wasn’t his intent, but he had no wish to waste valuable breath on talk.

  And with good reason. The commotion and noise behind them grew louder as the sec force gained ground, the crowd parting more readily for the men in the distinctive uniforms. They were gaining ground—enough for them to risk shots over the heads of the scattering crowd.

  It was the last thing the recce party needed. There was no way they would be hit by the first volley, but as it forced the crowd to part, it gave the sec party chasing them an easier path…and a clearer shot.

  “Jak, find a side street soon,” J.B. gritted.

  The albino hunter had an inkling that he understood what the Armorer had planned—it was no more than he would have done himself—so he complied as soon as possible. A narrow street on the right would start to double them back toward the dormitory building that concealed their escape. Jak took the right turn, and the others followed.