by James Axler
Giving a startled cry, the woman dropped to the ground. The big man with the knife descended upon her and started to hack wildly. Blood sprayed at every stroke. Trapped beneath the coldheart, the struggling wrinklie began to shriek once more, then went completely still.
Circling the box canyon, the three riders joined their companion. Stepping away from his grisly work, the big man gave a cruel laugh, then lifted up the patched skirt of the aced wrinklie.
Horrified, Delphi furrowed his brow. Surely they weren’t going to rape the corpse!
Laughing, the man used the skirt to clean his gory knife, while the three riders trotted over to the fallen horse. The Appaloosa-colored mare lay motionless on the hot sand, its eyes wide in terror, foam flecking the black lips. There was no doubt that it was chilled. Turning away from the sight, the man with the knife spit on the aced wrinklie.
Just then, a spotted dog jumped out from the cab of the truck and raced toward him, moving incredibly fast on just three stubby legs. Crying out in surprise, the man dived out of the way. But the dog ignored him to stop alongside the corpse of its still master. The animal gave a little bark, as if waiting for a reply, then raised its massive head and snarled in bestial rage, baring sharp white teeth.
But the pause had been a mistake, and the riders feathered the dog with arrows. Mortally wounded, the bleeding animal limped toward the first man, yipping and barking. With his back to the grove of cactus plants, the man reached for his knife, but found the sheath empty. Lunging forward, the coldheart grabbed the dog by the throat and throttled it with his bare hands. The dying animal fought to the end, snapping its jaws and clawing for the hated enemy with its three stubby legs. But it couldn’t reach the man, and eventually the dog eased its attack to go limp. With a guttural curse, the man tossed the corpse away and went looking for his dropped knife.
From his hilltop refuge, Delphi watched as the three men dismounted from their horses to spread out and recover the used arrows. Armed once more, the tall man with the bald head stood guard while the others looted the interior of the truck. Apparently there wasn’t much of interest inside, but the four men shared the collection equally. One of them found a bag full of dried meat and started to take a bite when the smaller man with a ponytail shouted a warning and slapped it to the ground. As the others listened, he spoke harshly to them, and used a dirty handkerchief to retrieve the dropped jerky and put it back in the bag.
So that one knew about mutie rat meat, eh? Delphi chuckled and lighted a fresh cigarette. Better and better. Maybe these four would be acceptable after all.
Going over to the chilled horse, its former rider gently stroked the long neck, then walked over to the dog and began butchering it on the sand. One of the riders, a large man with a pronounced barrel chest, started a fire using the stack of tree limbs. As the dog was cut into joints, the barrel-chested man put the meat on a spit and began cooking.
Delphi watched with marked interest as one of them kept glancing at the grove of cactus plants, then finally loaded his crossbow and walked over to the edge of the prickly forest. From his high vantage point, Delphi could see the old man standing hidden inside the deadly grove, his thin shoulders shaking slightly from silent weeping. Ah, he had almost forgotten about the fruit harvester.
What will you do, old man? Hide and run away? Or try to avenge your fallen mate?
Tilting his head as if listening, the tall man raised the crossbow and fired. The wrinklie cried out and dropped to the ground. Resting the crossbow on a shoulder, the tall man turned his back on the grove and went to join the others.
“Now that was an excellent shot,” Delphi whispered. Maybe his search was at last done with these four killers. Then he frowned. No, damn it, the word was chill, or ace, in this place. Apparently nobody used the word kill anymore, and abstract terms such as murder were completely unknown.
Down in the box canyon, the coldhearts separated without discussion, each to his own task. The bald man reloaded the black-powder blaster and stood guard, while the tall man and the fellow with the ponytail dragged the aced woman by her skirt over to the dead horse. Then both of the norms started digging a hole large enough to hold the two bodies.
A dry breeze whipped the loose sand around his polished boots, as Delphi nodded in satisfaction. Excellent. They weren’t going to butcher the horse for meat because it had served them well—and they’d be sated by the dog—but they also understood that an exposed corpse would only spread the smell of death onto the wind and summon every mutie beast for miles. They were tough and smart. These four could kill strangers without hesitation, even helpless old men and women. Plus, they were loyal, but without being sentimental.
Raising his right hand, Delphi glanced at his palm and saw their names scroll along the nanotech monitor embedded into his pale flesh. John, Robert, Edward and Alan. The Rogan brothers.
Yes, these men would do fine.
Chapter Two
The tumultuous sky above the U.S. Virgin Islands was a solid bank of moving gray clouds. The roiling heavens split asunder as sheet lighting flashed on the horizon, leaving an ionized trail of purple across the ravaged clouds. Huge waves rose to white crests and crashed onto the rocky shoreline of the tropical island with triphammer force.
Dotting the white-sand beaches were the rusted hulks of predark warships, their massive metal forms lolling sideways, the armored hulls split open like dying animals to expose the complex interiors to the savage pounding rains. The corroded remains of cannons and missiles lay in plain sight and thousands of small blue crabs moved freely among the wreckage, consuming anything organic that was to be found: bones, boots and uniforms. Fluttering in the harsh rain, the faded remains of a flag hung from the end of the mast of a yacht. The cloth was bleached white, the crumbling keel covered with barnacles, the smashed hull charred badly in spots from numerous lightning strikes.
“This nuking storm is never going to end,” Ryan Cawdor stated, staring angrily at the savage ocean.
Impulsively, the one-eyed man reached up to adjust the worn leather patch covering the ruin of his left eye. His own brother had taken the organ in a knife fight, and given him a long ugly scar on the right cheek to go with it. But Harvey was under the dirt now, while Ryan was still sucking air, and that was all that truly mattered. The ancient marks of violence on his face were merely two small memories among countless others decorating his hard, muscular body.
Ryan’s hand rested comfortably on the checkered grip of his SIG-Sauer autoloader safely secreted in a hip holster. A large panga in a curved sheath balanced the deadly weapon on his other hip, and a bolt-action longblaster with a telescopic sight was slung across his wide, muscular shoulder.
“Yeah, hell of a storm,” J. B. Dix agreed, lowering the brim of his fedora as if for a bit more protection.
A good foot shorter than his friend, John Barrymore Dix was wearing a mixture of predark clothing: U.S. Army boots, fatigue pants, OD T-shirt and a leather Air Force bomber jacket. His weapons shone like new, lovingly polished and oiled every night by the master armorer. An Uzi machine pistol was draped across his chest, an S&W M-4000 shotgun slung across his back. However, the munitions bag that carried his stash of plas and grens was hanging flat at his side. The canvas satchel was sadly empty, aside from a few loose rounds of brass and a couple of predark civie road flares of questionable service.
Standing in the access tunnel of the underground re doubt, the two men were safe from the touch of the deadly acid rain outside, yet they carefully watched as the chem-rich water fell like a yellow curtain across the mouth of the passageway. The acid rain was mixing with normal rain, orange clouds mixing with black in the violent sky overhead. They hoped it was a good sign for the future, that the acid rains were starting to fade away. But that didn’t lull them into a false sense of security. In less than a minute, the deadly yellow rain could strip a shrieking man of flesh down to his raw bones, in spite of being weakened by the presence of the clean water shower. Of cour
se the strength of the acid rain depended on many factors, one of which was a person’s location in the Deathlands.
“Seen worse.” Ryan grunted, rubbing his smoothly shaved chin. “But not by much, that’s for sure.”
With all that useless water outside, the salty ocean and the acid rain, it had seemed amazing to the companions that the machinery of the redoubt had been still able to deliver all the crystal-clear water the companions wanted the previous night. Everything Ryan was wearing, predark combat boots, denim pants and matching shirt, were in the unusual state of being thoroughly clean. Even his heavy fur-lined coat had gone through the wash, the accumulated blood, mud and food stains purged by the gently chugging laundry machines down on the fifth level. The companions were showered and shaved, warm and clean, a rare treat for anybody these days, and everyone except Krysty Wroth had had his or her hair trimmed.
“I hear ya,” J.B. said, blinking at the tempest through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dark night, remember that big wash in Tennessee? That was nothing compared to this mother of a storm!”
“And those ruins are so damn close,” Ryan muttered darkly, tensing as if about to take a step outside. But then he relaxed and frowned.
“Mebbe if we had an APC we could chance a run,” J.B. added, crossing his arms. “But I’d sure hate to be the first to try!”
Sullenly, Ryan grunted in agreement. Yeah, a man would have to be pretty damn desperate to risk going into the hellish downpour. Even this deep in the tunnel, the reek of the chem storm was thickly unpleasant. Only the cool breeze coming from the open door of the redoubt behind allowed them to stand this close to the reeking miasma of the rain.
Just then, a huge wave crashed on the rocky shoreline and lightning flashed again, the strident discharge briefly illuminating the area. In the blue light, just for a split tick, Ryan and J.B. could see the ruins of a predark city filling the eastern side of the island. Tall skyscrapers of glass and chrome were still standing downtown, apparently undamaged by the nuke war or the ravages of time. Five, six, some of them even ten stories tall! And scattered about the buildings could be seen the steady unblinking glow of electric lights. Powered by resilient nuke batteries, the old beacons were still giving a warning for airplanes that had ceased to exist a hundred winters earlier. There weren’t many of the lights, only a precious handful. But the beacons shone bright as hope in the tropical storm.
Hunching his shoulders, Ryan frowned. But there was something there even more important than the electric lights. Surrounding the buildings on every side was a thick forest of green trees, the oddly shaped leaves shiny-slick from the combination of rain and ocean spray. Leaves, trees…it was almost fragging unbelievable, given the acid rain and all.
Standing in the access tunnel near the somber men was a beautiful redheaded woman leaning against the brick wall of the passageway, her left arm moving steadily as she brushed her teeth. The long hair hanging to her shoulders flexed and stirred against the direction of the breeze coming from the redoubt as if the crimson filaments were endowed with an independent life force of their own.
“Think we’re still in Deathlands?” Krysty Wroth asked, once again dipping the toothbrush into an open box of baking soda.
Her cowboy boots shone with polish. She’d traded in her jumpsuit for denim pants and a crisp white shirt, found sealed in a plastic box. Around her waist was a police gunbelt supporting a .38 revolver, a deadly compact blaster that had seen many battles. But very few of the ammunition loops of the gunbelt held any live brass, mostly they were filled with spent cartridges waiting to be reloaded.
“Nuking hell, we could be anyplace,” Ryan answered gruffly. “No way of telling through this drek.” He paused at a peal of thunder, then added, “But it doesn’t resemble any area I’ve been to before.”
Folding back his collar, J.B. touched the minisextant hanging on a chain around his neck. “And without a clear view of the sun, there’s no way for me to get a reading. We might be in Europe or Brazil for all I know.”
“That memo we found on the trash bin mentioned the Virgin Islands,” Ryan reminded him, glancing sideways.
J.B. shrugged. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean this is them. Mebbe the guy was planning on going there when the world ended.”
With a dissatisfied grunt, Krysty went back to scrubbing her molars. Thankfully, the pain wasn’t too bad today. She had the beginning of a major cavity, and was fighting off the day when it would be necessary for Mildred to use pliers and yank the rotten tooth out by the roots.
How odd, death I can face, Krysty thought privately as she scrubbed diligently away. But not pain. Have I experienced so much that I am getting weak? Mother Gaia, help me, if that ever happens!
Suddenly the sound of boots rang on the concrete behind them, and the three companions turned to see a stocky black woman walk out of the redoubt.
“Aw, hell, still raining,” Mildred Wyeth said angrily, contorting her face into a dark scowl. “Damn it, we’re never going to get a sample of those trees!”
The short physician was dressed in Army fatigue pants, an officer’s white shirt and a loose denim jacket. Clipped to the front of her canvas web belt was a Czech ZKR target pistol, and draped over her shoulder was a canvas bag with the faded letters M*A*S*H on the side. The predark field surgery kit had never left her possession since she’d recently found it. The medicine was long gone, but the few surgical instruments it contained were beyond price.
“Nobody’s going anywhere, Millie,” J.B. said kindly, curling an arm around the woman’s waist. “Sorry.”
Mildred moved a little closer to the Armorer, savoring the warmth coming off the man. “Who would have thought it ever possible,” she muttered, squinting into the storm. “Plants, living green plants immune to the acid rain!”
“Some new mutation, probably,” Krysty said, tucking the toothbrush and box of baking soda into a pocket of her bearskin coat. “Not every mutie wants to eat people.”
“Just most of them.” J.B. snorted in droll humor.
“Mebbe these plants feed off the rain,” Ryan said unexpectedly, his brow furrowed. “We know for a fact that the predark whitecoats were working on making things that could survive skydark.”
The companions grew silent at that comment. They had encountered the experiments of the crazy whitecoats before, the bioweps, genetically altered creatures that could withstand certain hostile conditions, some even surviving the deadly rads in the blast craters.
“If only I could get a sample…” Mildred muttered, easing away from her lover.
For a moment there flashed in her mind the legend of Johnny Appleseed from the eighteenth century, how he traveled across North America scattering apple seeds and creating entire forests of fruit trees, changing grasslands into beautiful forests. She could do that with just a few cuttings from the strange plants out there. Mildred would just have to plant a few sprigs everywhere the companions went. Oh, she would never see the final results, but someday, in a hundred years, the continent could be green again. Deserts turned into forests. It would work! The Deathlands could be defeated! If only…
Lost in her reverie, Mildred started forward when a gust of wind from outside washed along the access tunnel and she flinched at the sharp stink of the rain. If only we had an APC, she thought. But would even an armored personnel carrier, or a U.S. Army tank be safe in this downpour? Probably not.
“They are as unreachable as the stars, madam,” Doc Tanner rumbled, his voice sounding deeper than the thunder.
The four companions turned to see their other friends amble through the open doorway of the redoubt. With nobody standing in the way anymore, the multiton door slid closed, the titanic slab of metal easing into the adamantine wall as silent as a knife in a dream.
Tall and lean, Doc Tanner was dressed as if from another century with a swallowtail jacket and frilly shirt. But the impression of gentility was beguiled by the strictly utilitarian .455 LeMat handcannon on his gunbelt, the grip of th
e massive black-powder weapon worn from constant use. Tucked under one arm, Doc carried an ebony walking stick with a silver lion’s head for a handle. Hidden inside was a rapier of the finest Toledo steel.
“NASA has sent probes to the stars, you old coot,” Mildred snapped irritably.
“Indeed, madam, so you say,” Doc continued unabated. “But they brought nothing useful back that we know about, and so shall it be again this time, I am afraid. We can look, but not touch.”
“Just like in vid,” Jak Lauren stated, brushing back his snowy-white hair. The albino teenager was wearing camou-color clothing. His jacket was a deadly weapon, as bits of razor-sharp metal had been sewn into the fabric here and there. If anyone grabbed him by the collar, the person would lose fingers. A number of leaf-bladed throwing knives were hidden about his person, and a massive .357 Magnum Colt Python was holstered at his side.
“What vid was that?” Ryan asked over a shoulder.
Jak shrugged. “Dean and I saw in another redoubt. Victory for Victoria, mebbe. Skinny man standing in snow look through window at fat baron in a gaudy house stuffing self with food.” The teenager frowned. “Not follow story after that. Boring, but only vid that still played on comp.”
“Victor/Victoria,” Mildred corrected him with a wan smile. “Yes, I wouldn’t think that a musical comedy would be to your liking.”
Jak arched an eyebrow. “Why say? Like music vids. Always lots of food, pretty girls.”
“And that, my young friend, is as good a description of paradise as any in these draconian days.” Doc sighed. Slipping the walking stick out from under his arm, Doc strode to the very end of the tunnel, stopping only a few feet away from the damp spot on the floor where the rain had been blown inside.
“Most people, I believe, shall never see, a poem as lovely as… What was that line?” Doc whispered softly, then spun fast. “Ryan, we simply must have those trees! Surely something can be done. That city cannot be more than a league away. Maybe less.”