Seedling

by James Axler

  "That's some more eels."

  Dred stood to slide shut the steel door, fixing a wedge of wood to prevent it from being opened from the other side, when they all heard a woman's voice calling from the darkness beyond.

  "Dred! That you in there? Hey, the Hawks!"

  "She's one of us. One of our sluts. Kinda special slut for me."

  "Dred! Lemmein, please!"

  The boy shrugged and glanced at his five guests. Ryan realized he was trying to look cool and in charge.

  "Stop triggering, Retha. Got some outies here with me."

  "Got some food and liquor, Dred."

  He heaved at the door and managed to slide it open again. Only a foot or so, but it was enough for the girl to slip through.

  "Starting to rain, Dred," she stated, eyes flicking across the faces of the strangers.

  In turn they all studied her. The girl was about five feet tall with jagged yellow hair that the rain had teased into wet spikes. Ryan figured her weight around eighty pounds, including the thigh-length green rubber waders she was wearing. Her face was deathly white, her green eyes sunk into hollows of wind-washed bone. She walked forward, smiling nervously, and revealing teeth that were even worse than Dred's.

  "I'm Retha," she announced. "Dred's special slut. Aren't I?"

  "Sure, sure." He fixed the door back across the hole, closing out the night. "You been in the sewer tunnels again?"

  She looked down at her feet. "Yeah. Borrowed these from Edie. Went under some Chivs and got half a dog and some joltsky." Retha reached under her parka and flourished a dark green bottle with a screw top.

  "Shouldn't go tunneling on your own. Stupe slut!"

  "Sorry, Dred."

  There was an uncomfortable silence, which was broken by Doc rising from what remained of the front seat of an old Volvo. He offered his hand to the girl. "My name is Doc Tanner, my dear. I'm enchanted to make your acquaintance."

  "Thanks."

  "And these are my trusty companions. Searchers after the elusive truth and vagabonds upon the misty highway that winds toward the eternal mountain of spun crystal. Good people all." He introduced them one by one.

  Retha shook her head. "I never seen so many old­ies in one place, Dred."

  "That's what outies are. Leave the turf and your hair falls out, your teeth crack and you end up shit­ting blood."

  It occurred to Mildred, though she kept her thoughts to herself, that this was a remarkably accu­rate and concise description of the horrors of radia­tion sickness.

  The girl peeled off her coat, revealing a well-darned sweater in maroon and green. The sleeves had unrav­eled, showing that the girl had tattoos on both arms.

  The right was a reproduction of the bird of prey on the wall outside the hiding place—yellow with red claws and beak. On the other arm was a flower, yel­low at the center with white petals and a wobbly green stalk. Below it was the name "Dred."

  "Anyone mind if I take these big boots off?" she asked. "Only my feet stink horrible after I've been wearing them all day."

  She wasn't kidding. Fortunately the smell was cloaked by the shank of a dog that Dred stuck on a spit and began to roast over the fire.

  "Why you in Newyork?" she asked, addressing the question to Krysty.

  "Not easy to answer that, Retha. Sort of passing through."

  "To where?" Dred questioned, turning from stir­ring one of the glowing cans of food, a dripping spoon in his hand.

  She pointed vaguely toward the west. "Out there."

  "Oh, yeah. Jersey. Lot of swampies there. Watch yourself crossing the big river."

  "That food ready?" J.B. asked hungrily.

  "Just about."

  "Did my old ears catch some passing mention of a bottle that might contain a little joltsky?" Doc asked.

  "Didn't know you had a taste for joltsky," Krysty teased.

  "Prefer a decent Mouton Cadet or any halfway good Spatlese, but times are passing. I developed a taste for it during my time back in the Darks with friends Teague and Strasser."

  The skinny girl worked on the top, loosening it with her teeth, biting down hard on the metal and making Ryan wince. He half expected to see her damaged molars splinter around the bottle neck. But Retha succeeded, passing it first to Dred.

  He gulped down a mouthful, wiping his cracked lips and smothering a cough. "Not fucking bad," he pronounced.

  Doc reached out for the green bottle, holding it suspiciously to the light of the fire, then sniffing it. "Certainly raises a few gibbering spirits of evil mem­ory. Cheers, my dears." After a quick swallow, he choked and spluttered, "By the three Kennedys! That is hotter than the hobs of Hades. Excellent."

  Ryan took the bottle next. Joltsky was one of the most common alcoholic drinks in Deathlands, and it varied radically from ville to ville. Battery acid had been known to find its way into some brews, but at its simplest it was just bootleg hooch, distilled over a fire of hickory wood with a sprinkling of jolt, the pow­erful hallucinogenic drug.

  Judging by the extremely bitter flavor of this mix­ture, it could have contained a powerful dose of jolt. Ryan had a second, cautious sip. Then he handed it to Krysty, who shook her head and passed it to Mildred.

  "What did you say it was called?" she asked Re­tha.

  "Joltsky."

  "Smells like two hundred proof distilled with a mix of animal anesthetic. No thanks."

  J.B. didn't have any worries and took a long draw on the bottle, nodding. "Last time I had anything that strong must've been…" He looked at Ryan. "That gaudy house south of Reeno."

  "Right. The time Hun and Finnegan took off all their clothes and painted each other with black var­nish and—"

  Their reminiscent laughter was interrupted by Retha, who suddenly drew a dirty Saturday night spe­cial from the back of her belt and leveled the little .32 at J.B.

  Chapter Eight

  RYAN'S HAND WAS already on the butt of his own blaster when he realized the skinny girl was pointing her pistol past the Armorer.

  "Scalie," she said quietly. "Hand halfway around the door."

  Then they all saw it—very long fingers webbed to the second joint, terminating in claws of hooked bone. The back of the hand was coated in thick, overlapping scales.

  Dred had also drawn a small-caliber pistol of in­determinate age and pedigree. Both blasters had such short barrels that Ryan doubted their accuracy at anything over five feet.

  Everyone watched the hand as it spidered slowly around the edges of the makeshift door, as though it were feeling for a lock or bolt. In the sudden silence the fingers stopped, as if the mutie outside was aware that it had been seen.

  Dred took a half step toward the door, blaster lev­eled and steady. Ryan saw the knuckle whitening and held up a hand. "No."

  "I can hit it from here," the boy protested, his face flushing with what could have been anger.

  "Just a piss-ant wound. Open the door and chill the shit out of it."

  "Could be several."

  "We got the firepower to take out a few mutie reptiles," J.B. said.

  The sound of the muttered conversation seemed to have reassured the creature outside, and its hand be­gan its cautious exploration again.

  Dred looked at the girl, who shrugged. Now ev­eryone in the smoky room had a gun drawn.

  "Come on," Ryan urged.

  "I don't—"

  "Do it," Retha whispered.

  "I'll take the door," the Armorer said, moving lightly to the side. "Everyone ready? Keep clear of lines of fire. Right, on three. One, two and three!"

  With a surge of power that belied his slender body, J.B. heaved the heavy rectangle of metal away from the opening, revealing the cold night—and also re­vealing three of the scalies, frozen, their olive-green flesh tinted scarlet by the glow of the cooking fire. All of them wore ragged shirts and pants.

  The underground chamber reverberated with the pounding of seven blasters, all firing at once, pour­ing concentrated lead at the reptilian mu
ties.

  It wasn't a firefight, just a plain bloody slaughter.

  The invaders, bodies slick with rain, tumbled in a tangle of flailing arms and legs and snapping jaws, all dying where they fell.

  One rolled close to Doc, who hastily shifted his feet out of the way of the raking talons, clutching at him in the spasms of death. Blood seeped down the cracked staircase, dripping and puddling on the un­even floor.

  After the burst of shooting, there was a strange calm. One of the scalies was still twitching, its claws scraping on the stone. Within seconds even that stopped and there was stillness. "Great blasters!" Dred exclaimed. "Yeah. Where d'you outies thieve such fucking great blasters?" Retha holstered her own small handgun.

  "Picked them up here and there," Ryan replied. "Will you show them to us after?" Dred was more interested in the powerful weapons than in the corpses of the three muties that still blocked the entrance to his hiding place. And let in the rain and the dark.

  "Clear the shit out of the way first," Ryan growled. "Might be more around."

  Dred whooped and punched the air with his left hand. "Excellent spilling, man! You old outies are the best…and I'm talking fucking triple-best. Tore them snaky bastards from river to river!"

  Retha looked at the trio of dead muties, poking at one with her bare foot, her smile showing the dental devastation that blighted her mouth. "Never seen such power from blasters," she said, shaking her head. "We had them, and the Hawks could wipe up all the shit gangs clear across Mattan."

  Doc was peering at his Le Mat. "Thought I had the scattergun barrel set. Turned out to be the .36s."

  "Did the job," J.B. commented. "Something burning on the fire." Krysty moved toward the cooking food.

  "Clear up and then eat. Then finish the joltsky." Dred was dancing with a manic glee, waving his .32 pistol.

  "Sounds good," Mildred said. She had only fired three rounds from her ZKR 551, each of the .38 cal­iber bullets hitting a scalie within an inch of its mouth.

  Ryan, J.B. and Doc began to drag the stinking bodies up the stairs and into the gray drizzle that was driving in from the north. Mildred moved to help them, leaving Krysty by the cooking fire. Retha and Dred watched the disposal of their enemies, hugging each other with delight.

  Krysty peered into the largest of the pots, bending to stir it with an elegant metal spoon bearing a crest of a fleur-de-lis. Behind her the panel of wood that concealed the panic-run exit burst inward.

  An immensely tall and fat scalie erupted into the cellar, holding a long sword in its left fist. With its right it snatched Krysty, snagging its claws in her mane of bright hair. She screamed, shrill and pierc­ing.

  By the time anyone started to react, the mutie had one arm around her throat and was holding the point of its makeshift blade at the side of her face. Ryan started to go for his blaster, seeing he was going to be a half second too late.

  Only one person in the group had his gun still in his hand.

  Dred.

  Plaits whirling, the teenager recognized the instant of danger. He leveled his small handgun, the peeling chrome flickering with reflected firelight, and squeezed the trigger three times.

  Ryan winced, knowing the effective range of the Saturday night special, one of the most common blasters in Deathlands, could spell death for his helpless lover.

  The first bullet hit the wall nearly four feet to the left of the scalie; the second ricocheted off the cook­ing spit, sending the haunch of roasting dog into the eager flames; the third, as Dred found his balance, smashed into the long lower jaw of the reptilian mutie.

  It staggered back, coughing and spitting blood and broken teeth, letting go of Krysty, who dived away to safety. Dark blood, black in the dim light, gushed across the creature's neck and chest.

  Ryan aimed his SIG-Sauer P-226 and snapped off two rounds. The built-in baffle silencer did its stuff, and there was only a discreet double-cough, drowned by the agonized roaring of the scalie.

  One of the 9 mm full-metal jacket rounds struck it in the center of its exposed throat, tearing through the leathery skin. The second took it high at the side of the angular skull, just below the twin-lidded eye.

  The long steel blade rattled on the stone as the dy­ing mutie fell to its knees, grasping at the gaping wound in its neck. Blood spouted, hissing in the fire, filling the cavern with the bittersweet smell of hot death.

  One of the cans of eels was knocked over in the tumbling and kicking, adding an extra layer to the sickening cocktail of scents. The movements of the scalie's muscular arms and legs slowed, then finally stopped.

  Dred punched the air with both hands in a gesture of triumph. "Is that more better or is that fucking more better?" he shouted.

  Ryan took a halfstep toward the crowing youth, the tic of ferocious white anger working at his temple. He wanted to plant the barrel of the blaster across the kid's grinning mouth. Spraying bullets around like that—with such talentless bravado—showed a level of foolishness that made Ryan's blood race.

  But Krysty had seen the look on his face, and she grabbed at his arm. "No, lover," she said, just loud enough for him to hear.

  "Right through the mutie's shithead face!" Dred yelled.

  "Could've chilled you," Ryan whispered through gritted teeth.

  "Didn't. Everyone else was cold-cocked. The scalie could have taken me out, lover."

  She was speaking the truth. Ryan, even in his kill­ing anger, recognized that. The appearance of the huge mutie from the hidden entrance had taken all of them by surprise, including Ryan himself.

  As the crimson pulse slowed, he could also accept that a part of his rage was directed at himself for al­lowing someone else to save Krysty's life.

  "Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

  IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT. The last body had been dragged out and thrown down the slope to join its former friends.

  When Ryan went out for a piss a couple of hours after the brief battle, he saw that all of the corpses had disappeared, dragged away by God knows what hideous scavengers.

  Despite one can of eels being ruined and a chunk of the dog being badly scorched, there was still enough food to go around. The bottle of joltsky was shared, mainly by Dred and Retha, though Ryan, Doc and J.B. all took small nips. Mildred tried it, shaking her head in disgust at the flavor.

  "Rather drink a rabid bat's piss through a leper's shroud," she told them.

  Krysty simply refused the bottle.

  Doc fell asleep early, curling up in a corner, snor­ing steadily. Mildred and J.B. soon emulated him, though without the rhythmic snores.

  Ryan and Krysty sat close together by the rem­nants of the dying fire, watching as Dred and his di­minutive girlfriend became more and more stoned.

  "Showed them scalies," the boy muttered.

  "Lots more where the green-prick bastards came from," Retha responded.

  Ryan was interested. "Lots more? You mean a se­rious gang of them?"

  Dred nodded solemnly. "Sure. They push at the Hawks' turf from the river and the old sewers. Now they found this place, we'll dump it and move on."

  "Where's their base?" Krysty asked.

  "Who knows? Some say down the docks, south­west side. Never go that way."

  "Never," Retha repeated, blinking owlishly at the boy. Her right hand had disappeared inside his pants and was busily working away there. "Never, ever, river, bother."

  Eventually the teenagers fell asleep.

  "Fancy a quick hug, lover?" Krysty whispered.

  Ryan shook his head. "No. Not here."

  "Sure." Krysty gazed at Dred and the girl. Asleep, Retha looked to be about eight years old, sucking her thumb like a cradled child. "They coming with us?"

  "Maybe."

  "Replace Jak, you think?"

  Ryan grunted. It could have been yes. And it could have been no.

  Chapter Nine

  IT WAS A relief to climb out into the cool dawn air, leaving the smoky atmosphere of the cellar with its lingering ste
nch of blood, charred meat and roasted fish.

  Ryan woke first, easing himself from Krysty's em­brace, pulling on his jacket and winding the white silk scarf around his neck, tucking the weighted ends in­side his shirt.

  There was a mist over the limitless ruins of what many had thought had once been the greatest city in the world. Ryan shaded his eye and peered south­ward, trying to make out if anything remained of the golden towers that had scraped at the sky.

  But that whole section was hidden in fog.

  There was a breeze from the northwest, bringing the faint flavor of early-morning cooking fires. The mist slithered away, and Ryan had a clear view of the gleaming waterway. What had Mildred called it?

  "Harlem River," he said to himself.

  By the piles of one of the ruined bridges, he caught a glimpse of something moving. It was immensely long, with a body that was coiled like a snake or an unimaginably huge eel. It rolled lazily across his vision, and there was a snapshot of a blunt head, ris­ing several feet from the water.

  Then the fog returned, and he could no longer see the river.

  There was a noise behind him on the steps, and he turned to see Dred walking toward him, holding the smooth gray shape of the G-12 caseless automatic ri­fle.

  "The blaster's mine, Dred," Ryan said, resisting the immediate impulse to drop his hand to the butt of the SIG-Sauer.

  "It's double-lethal, Ryan."

  "Go put it back."

  Dred's face fell. "I'm pres of the Hawks, outie. Not nobody talks like that."

  "Put it back or you get hurt."

  The muzzle of the Heckler & Koch G-12 swung up to center on Ryan's belt.

  The one-eyed man looked into the boy's face. "You got three seconds to go and do like I told you. You made a bad mistake, and you just made it triple-worse. Put it back."

  "Or?"

  "Crows get to eat your eyes."

  "Big talk for a one-eyed wrinklie, Ryan Cawdor."

  "Oh, fuck this." Ryan drew the heavy panga from his belt and started to move toward the boy.

  "Okay, okay. I'm going. Fuck a mutie duck, Ryan. No call to get so…" He turned and vanished down the staircase.