Incoming rounds drilled into the equipment around them.

Ryan returned fire, while J.B. frantically threw supplies into the chamber.

Grabbing a sack of grens, the one-eyed warrior held one out to J.B. so the

Armorer could see that the safety pin was firmly in place.

J.B. nodded, and they began to throw the deadly bombs wildly into the warehouse.

Shouting warnings, Sheffield and his sec men scrambled to reach the exit.

Tossing the half-filled bag into the chamber, RyanJgd the way into the gateway,

then closed the door.

With pounding hearts, the two men waited for the swirling mists to engulf them,

or for the chamber door to swing open again and for them to be brutally cuf down

by a hail of bullets from the hated blues…

Dark Reckoning

by James Axler

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE

TORONTO * NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is

stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and

neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped

book."

To all my teachers, whose noteworthy skills helped forge my meager own:

Alexandra Dumas, Dashiell Hammett, Lester Dent, Richard Falkirk and Robert B.

Parker. Thanks, guys. I owe you all a beer.

First edition January

ISBN 0-373-62548-

DARK RECKONING

Copyright © 2000 by Worldwide Library.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or

utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,

mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including

xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or

retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher,

Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the

author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names.

They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the

author, and all incidents are pure invention.

® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are

registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade

Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed in U.S.A.

…the dire time was finally here. We stood uncertain at the crossroads of total

victory, and equally total defeat. A single moment's hesitation, the wrong word

in a communiqud, a lone stray bullet could shatter all of our efforts and cast

us once more at the feet of the beast.

But we chanced on fate, armed our guns and threw our resolve into the crucible

of blood…

—Sir Winston Churchill, Triumph and Tragedy,

THE DEATHLANDS SAGA

This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001

that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the

balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion,

the hawk and the tiger, true to nature's heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal

from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville's own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the

strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered

by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan's close ally, he, too, honed his

skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc

has been thrown into a future he couldn't have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is

not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings

twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and

danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan's young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and

yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity's last hope…

Chapter One

The howling alarms faded into blessed silence, and the ceiling lights of the

redoubt flickered into life, as bright and strong as ever. Almost immediately,

the seven bodies on the floor began to stir sluggishly.

As the burning waves of pain throughout his body slowly subsided, Ryan Cawdor

opened his good eye and pulled a ragged breath into his aching lungs.

"F-fireblast," the man cursed weakly, his cramped muscles relaxing for the first

time since he had entered the underground base. Never had the man encountered

anything like this before. His skin had felt as if it were on fire, with

flesh-eating ants digging inside his skull. A hot slug of lead in his gut would

have been sweet relief compared to what he had just gone through for the

past…how long? His mind was foggy about the passage of time, the endless searing

pain blurring each hour into the next. Days, months? He had no idea. A rumble

shook his belly, and a sour belch rose in his throat. Ryan was starving, so it

had to have been quite awhile. Those blue-shirt sec men were going to pay for

this, even if it took his last drop of blood. He'd chill every one of them!

Almost without thought, Ryan ran his hands over his clothing in an old ritual.

The 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol was still at his hip, the curved panga in its sheath.

The ammo pouch was flat and empty, and he couldn't locate his Steyr SSG-70

sniper rifle anywhere nearby on the nearby floor. Had he dropped it outside?

That would mean that the microwaves from the Kite satellite would have melted it

into a puddle of useless steel by now.

Trying to rise, Ryan fumbled and slumped onto the cool floor beside a huge metal

pump of some kind. The machine beat as steady as a human heart, performing some

task involved in maintaining the nuclear reactors of the military redoubt.

The rad shielding around the subterranean base was the only thing that gave the

companions some small amount of protection from the searing microwaves of the

orbiting Kite, and going to the very lowest level of the redoubt had helped even

more. But the sensation of being burned alive had only lessened, it never

stopped, and eventually increased to where the one-eyed man felt as if he were

being stabbed with a thousand needles, then red-hot knives. The agony robbed him

of strength until there was nothing else to do but pass out, only to awaken

hours later to the continuing bombardment.

Long minutes passed with only the sound of labored breathing breaking the

silence of the basement. Gathering his strength once more, Ryan tried to force

himself off the floor, and this time he succeeded. Struggling to his knees, the

one-eyed man tried to focus on his friends, but was having some degree of

difficulty doing so. Ryan realized he had to have taken more damage from the

microwaves than he originally thought. Another score to settle with the blues.

Brushing back his wild crop of long black hair, Ryan noticed how shaky his hands

were, the tanned skin red and irritated as if badly sunburned. He had spent a

thousand days in the deserts of Deathlands, but never got burned like this. For

a fleeting moment, he worried about cancer, then dismissed the problem. There

was nothing he could do about it, so he turned his attention to other more

solvable matters.

Catching his breath, the Deathlands warrior soon felt better. The odd trembling

stopped, and he was able to focus his vision without trouble. The rest of the

companions were scattered on the floor. Although their clothes were soaked with

sweat, everybody seemed okay, each breathing without trouble and starting to

move feebly. The low moans and curses were music to his ears. As the Trader

always said, only the living bitched. The dead never complained about anything.

Sprawled in the center of the friends was a beautiful redhead, her clothes in

disarray and laying frightfully still. Krysty Wroth usually healed faster than

any of the others, including Ryan. But as the rest of the companions started to

sit upright, she remained unconscious.

"Hey, M-Mildred," Ryan croaked, surprised to find his throat was sore. He had to

have been screaming for a while. The thought didn't bother him. Anybody who

didn't yell when being roasted alive wasn't tough; he was merely insane.

"Here…" the black woman whispered, then broke into a ragged cough. Her long

beaded plaits dangling limply around her face, Dr. Mildred Wyeth clumsily

fumbled to tug free a couple of buttons on her Army fatigues to wave fresh air

into her stained clothing. She sighed in relief as her bra came into view, then

again as she rubbed a hand over her chest, wiping off the sweat.

Aside from the sodden fatigues, the physician wore a gun belt with an empty

holster at her hip. Nearby was her Czech-made ZKR target pistol.

"Sweet Jesus," Mildred panted, massaging her temples to ease the throbbing

headache. "Feel like… I've been d-dipped…in acid. How…how long…"

Ryan could only shake his head in reply. His strength was returning fast, but he

was a long way from normal yet. "Don't know how long," he said, trying hard not

to stammer. "Days probably. Could be more, from the feeling in my gut."

Her own stomach rumbled in harmony. "Know what you mean. I could eat a Hummer

right about now, tires and all."

"Hell, yeah," a wiry man agreed, holding his head in both hands as if afraid it

was going to break into pieces. "H-haven't felt this bad since…poisoned back in

New California." An Uzi submachine gun hung on a sling over the man's shoulder,

an M-4000 scattergun partially hidden under a leg.

"How you doing, John?" the physician asked in concern.

By sheer effort of will, J. B. Dix yanked the shotgun from underneath his ass

and managed a brief smile. "Not dead yet, Millie," he said, placing the weapon

aside. Fumbling in the pocket of his battered leather jacket, he unearthed a

pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Setting them carefully on his face, J.B. frowned.

"Black dust, they're warped," he cursed and started trying to straighten the

bent frames.

"Go check on Krysty," Ryan ordered, standing wearily. His boots felt strangely

loose, as if he'd lost some weight. "She's not awake yet."

Nodding, Mildred crawled over to the supine redhead and placed two fingers on

her exposed throat. Rasping for air, Krysty's chest rose and fell regularly, but

her pulse was very weak. A trickle of dried blood marred a cheek from where

Krysty had bitten a lip, and her nails were badly cracked from clawing at the

floor. Worse, her animated hair lay limply on the cold concrete floor as if it

were dead. Mildred knew the filaments were more sensitive to pain than norm

hair, and especially sensitive to fire damage. The microwave bombardment had to

have been a living hell for Krysty.

Thankfully, the redhead wasn't wearing her heavy bearskin coat. The feverish

woman might have literally cooked to death wrapped inside the thick garment.

However, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver jutted from Krysty's gun belt, the hammer

still cocked for firing. Gingerly removing the blaster, Mildred eased down the

hammer and placed the weapon on the cool concrete. Thank God, the ammo hadn't

ignited from the microwaves or else Krysty would have blown open her stomach, a

bad way for anybody to catch the last train west.

Gently lifting an eyelid, Mildred waved a butane lighter back and forth. The

pupils dilated in response, and Krysty muttered something too soft to hear.

"She's alive," Mildred reported. "She just took it a lot worse than us. Her

hair, you know."

"Makes sense," Ryan replied, rubbing his cheek and finding a dense stubble. The

one-eyed man now knew for certain that they had been unconscious for days.

Whoever had been operating the Kite had been really serious about chilling all

of them. A brief image flashed into his mind of a tall man standing next to

Silas as the bullets slammed into the hated whitecoat, blowing away chunks of

his screaming body. The stranger had been wearing a crisp blue uniform, not just

a shirt, and he'd been carrying several bolstered blasters. Logic said he had to

be the sec chief for the Complex. At least their new enemy had a face, if not a

name.

"Can you do anything for her?" Ryan asked, his mind returning to the problem at

hand.

"I think so," Mildred replied, reaching for her med kit. She paused with a hand

in midair. Damn, she had forgotten about tossing away the precious med kit in

their desperate race to reach the redoubt. Every pound gone meant more speed,

and the companions had barely gotten inside alive. Her med kit was miles away,

probably reduced to ashes. She slumped in disappointment, too tired to feel

angry at the loss, or hatred of the blue shirts, and forced herself to think

about other things. There would be time for revenge later.

Krysty started to cough, and Mildred lifted the woman's neck to clear her

throat. The redhead instantly breathed easier, and Mildred looked for something

to use as a pillow. An old-fashioned frock coat was draped over the feeder pipe.

Perfect.

Mildred appropriated the garment, folding it into a wad and sliding under the

sleeping woman's neck.

"Anybody got a canteen?" Mildred asked hopefully, looking around.

Still working on his glasses, J.B. pushed the container closer with the heel of

his boot. "Here you go."

Unscrewing the cap, Mildred poured a few warm drops into the palm of her hand

and wiped Krysty's face. It wasn't much, but that was all the physician could do

at the moment. The water seemed to help, and Krysty's eyes fluttered open.

"Where…" she whispered, trying to rise. "Gaia… the redoubt… Tennessee…"

Mildred pushed her back down. "Lay still," she ordered. "Wait to get your

strength. We're okay for the moment."

"Mebbe," Ryan growled, rummaging through his clothing for bullets. He found

nothing, then checked the magazine of his pistol. Six rounds, that was it. Not

good.

Muttering to himself, a pale teenager with hair the color of snow lifted himself

off the floor with both arms as if doing a push-up, and blinked ruby red eyes.

"Not dead," Jak Lauren stated, sounding slightly shocked. The teenager was

dressed in camou-colored fatigues. A big bore Colt Python was holstered at his

hip.

"S-speak f-for yourself," a silver-haired man mumbled. One of his boots had come

off, exposing a sock with a hole in the toe. The frilly white shirt and breeches

shouted that the man could have come from another time, and the huge Civil

War-era blaster holstered at his hip seemed to confirm it. He clenched an ebony

cane in one fist, the silver lion's head loose enough to expose a few inches of

the stainless-steel sword hidden inside the hollow sheath.

Grunting with the effort, Dr. Theophilus Tanner flipped onto his back, leaving

the damp shadow of his body on the floor. He levered himself into a sitting

position using the stick, then stared at the weapon for a moment as if unaware

of what it was. Then, forcing open his grip, Doc dropped the weapon with a

clatter. The imprint of the handle was clear on his palm as if it had been

burned into the flesh.

"So we actually did make it down here," Doc rumbled in a stentorian bass. He

glanced at the high curved ceiling and glass walls. "I was not sure if this had

all been a dream, or a real event."

"Real enough. Just not sure how we got here," Ryan replied. "Everything after

entering the front door is fuzzy."

Extracting a silk handkerchief with a blue swallow's-eye design from a pocket,

Doc wiped his face, then used both hands to wring out the cloth. Water dribbled

onto the floor. "I fully understand, my dear Ryan. Is everybody else undamaged?"

"I'm okay," Dean Cawdor said, leaning against the thumping water pipe, his body

moving with each pulsation. A semiautomatic Browning Hi-Power pistol rested in a

cracked leather holster on his right hip, and a huge Bowie knife jutted from a

black nylon sheath on the other side, as if the enormous blade was balancing the

weight of the adult-sized blaster.

Jerking a thumb, J.B. added, "Krysty is still out."

Doc frowned, then nodded. "Ah yes. Her hair, of course."

With the others awake and moving, Ryan took the opportunity to survey the

underground reactor room. They were in the main access corridor that ran

straight down the middle of the wide room. Stairs leading to the higher levels

were at the far end, and some kind of processing water pump stood amid the

companions. Long windows of unbreakable glass formed the walls on either side,

letting them see the huge machinery beyond. But there were no doors to allow

access. Perhaps this was a restricted zone, and the elevator intended for use by

the nuke techs only.

A huge control booth filled the right side of the reactor room, with a pair of

desiccated corpses in U.S. Army uniforms sitting at the complex panels. Ryan was

impressed. For the bodies to be in that good condition after a hundred years,

the booth had to be absolutely air tight. Damn good workmanship.

To the left was a still pool of clear water, with a maze of bubbling pipes and a

steady glowing light at the bottom. Mildred had once explained that the glow was

actually a powerful laser flashing a million times a second, but to the naked

eye it seemed like a smooth shine. Ryan didn't care. Some levels of tech in the

redoubts were far beyond his understanding. As long as the predark machinery

maintained itself and continued pouring out electricity to run the redoubt,

basically that was all he cared about.

Just then, something familiar caught his attention, and Ryan quickly went to

reclaim his longblaster. The Steyr SSG-70 bolt-action rifle was undamaged, but

the rotary clip in the breech was exhausted, and there were no more mags in his

ammo pouch. Ryan shouldered the useless weapon. Even though they had no ammo

right now, the companions sometimes found stores of weapons and ammo in the

redoubts. Then he recalled where they were and bitterly cursed. The last time

they had been here, the redoubt was completely clean, not a can of beans or a

single live round remaining in the whole place. Plus, the mat-trans unit was

turned off. Or had he imagined that? They would have to check the chamber first

thing. That was top priority. Without some way out of here, they could be hit by

the microwaves again, and the one-eyed warrior didn't think any of them could

survive another bombardment like the last one.

"Hey, lover," Krysty said, limping across the room. Her flawless face was

flushed from the effort of standing, but the woman was walking under her own

power, the wild corona of her hair waving as if stirred by secret winds.

Ryan considered that a good sign. She had to be on the mend.

"Feeling better?" Ryan asked, reaching out to stroke her cheek. The filaments of

her fiery hair coiled about his fingers, pulling the man closer.

Krysty took his callused hand in hers and gave a squeeze. "Still alive," she

remarked, trying to conjure a laugh and only managing to weakly smile. "Which is

a lot more than we can say about Silas, so I can't really complain."

For the nth time, Ryan realized how truly beautiful she was, his perfect match

in every possible way, and a brief smile crossed his scarred face.

"I am most pleased to see you up and about, my dear Krysty," Doc said with a

stately bow. "We were worried there for a moment."

"I'm fine, just starving," Krysty added softly, her stomach loudly rumbling.

"Any of the MRE packs around?"

Ryan's own gut growled in harmony. "Not a crumb. We'll have to go hunting in the

upper levels for anything edible still in storage. But checking the mat-trans

unit is our top priority."

"Just in case we have to leave fast. Understood. But then food."

"Absolutely."

Doc cleared his throat. "Do you still require my coat, madam? If so, it is

yours."

She shook out the frock coat and passed it over. "I'm not cold anymore," Krysty

replied. "Thanks for the pillow."

"My pleasure. But you should thank the good doctor." He smiled. "I did nothing

special."

"Aw, stuff it, you old coot," Mildred retorted.

"Hey, what's that?" Dean asked, pointing across the room.

Instantly, the adults spun with their weapons at the ready. There was something

large and metallic hidden in the shadows underneath the stairs.

"Another door?" Jak asked, sliding a knife from his sleeve. "Never see before."

Checking his blaster, Ryan walked closer, with the rest of the companions close

behind. Mildred flicked her butane lighter, and in the flickering flame they saw

a large armored door set in the concrete wall. The frame was burnished steel,

the massive portal veined with reinforcing flanges and bars.

"A second armory?" Dean asked hopefully.

Working the bolt on his Uzi, J.B. scowled. "Could be anything."

Ryan rapped on the metal with the barrel of his blaster. "That's solid

vanadium," he stated. "Just like the main door upstairs."

"Nukeproof," Doc said suspiciously. "Could it be an escape route?"

"Never saw one in a redoubt before," Ryan replied. "But then, this redoubt has

lots of armored doors sealing off sections. I think it might have been one of

their secure sites."

"That would explain all the artwork upstairs." Krysty remarked. “Although why

they thought paintings and statues were valuable I have no idea."

"Pretty," Jak commented succinctly. "But that all."

"It was a different time," Mildred said, sighing in remembrance. "A different

world."

"Not make sense," Jak insisted.

Ryan snorted at the comment. "Lots of things about the redoubts make no sense.

You know that."

"An enigma designed by a fool," Doc muttered.

Rubbing his jaw, Ryan nodded. "Something like that."

Going to the door, Krysty pressed her ear against the cool metal. "Can't hear

anything," she reported. "J.B., think you can open this?"

"Why should we?" the Armorer asked, adjusting his glasses. The man seemed

lopsided without his ever-present bag of explosives at his side. The collection

of grens and plas-ex had been another loss in their desperate race for the

redoubt.

"Could be another level, mebbe a storehouse full of weapons and food."

"Hmm. Hide all of the good stuff downstairs, eh? Does make sense," the Armorer

replied, cracking his knuckles. "I'll give it a try."

"Hold," Ryan commanded. "Before we open any doors, I want a weapons check. I

have nothing for the Steyr, and only six shots in the SIG-Sauer. Plus, my panga.

How about the rest of you?"

"About the same. The scattergun is out," J.B. replied. "I have one clip for the

Uzi with ten rounds. Nothing else."

"Three loads for the LeMat," Doc announced, patting the huge pistol on his belt.

"And my sword."

"A full load of six," Krysty added, closing the cylinder of her S&W .38

revolver. "I found some loose rounds in a pocket. But no reloads."

"Nine rounds," Dean said, having already checked his blaster.

Scowling, Jak lowered his .357 Magnum Colt Python. "Two rounds," he reported.

"And knives."

"One live bullet," Mildred added, closing the cylinder of her target pistol.

"And a lot of spent casings for reloads."

"Fireblast, barely enough to go hunting," Ryan stated sourly. "And we sure as

shit can't go after the blues with this little ammo. They'd blow us to hell with

those damn rapidfires."

"Well, I can make black powder for Doc, and cordite for the rest of us," J.B.

stated, "but it takes time. I'd need a month to cook plastique."

"You have the equipment to do that?" Mildred asked in surprise.

He grinned. "Sure. All I need is a file and a bucketful of quarters. Give me a

few sunny days, and I can start producing guncotton and dynamite in under a

week."

Mildred shook her head in disbelief. The man was amazing. Make dynamite from

quarters? Sounded impossible, but if John said it could be done, that was enough

for her.

Standing before the huge door, Ryan stared at it thoughtfully. Escape route,

trap, or another level? A similar door was in the middle of the redoubt,

separating the mat-trans section from the living quarters, something the

companions had never encountered before in any redoubt. Hell, this could even be

one of those deep storage lockers the Trader had told him about so many years

ago, a special kind of vault designed to hold weapons and food in a sort of dry

suspension for a thousand years. Of course, there could also be a dozen of those

sec hunter droids inside to keep out intruders. The companions were too weak and

low on ammo to risk tangling with those armored machines. Yet everything they

needed could be behind that door—or sudden death. It was a big risk either way.

Balancing the options, Ryan made a decision.

"J.B., check for booby traps," he ordered, taking a combat stance. "Doc and

Dean, stand guard. Mildred, keep a watch on the stairs. Krysty, Jak and I will

watch for anything unfriendly coming out. We retreat to the garage if we can't

handle what's inside."

As the other companions moved into positions, J.B. ran his hands along the jamb

and checked the hinges, then the big bolt holding the door closed. Next, he ran

a small pocket compass along the surface of the metal. The magnetic needle

didn't quiver once to indicate a hidden magnetic switch or mass proximity fuse.

"Looks clean," he said hesitantly, and spit on the locking bolt, wiggling it a

few tunes to work the spittle inside the mechanism. His face clouded at the

thought of the lost oil can, lock picks and probes, then he resumed working.

When satisfied, J.B. slid the bolt free and tugged on the handle. Nothing

happened. "Heavy bastard. Give me a hand, will you?"

Grabbing the wheel, Ryan and Krysty helped the man force open the massive portal

a few inches. Almost instantly, something large scuttled in view, three

triangular eyes and long fangs reflected in the dim sliver of light.

"Close!" Jak ordered, as the thing shoved a clawed limb through the slim

opening. The albino teen leveled his blaster and fired once, the discharge

thunderously loud in the confines of the reactor room. A foot-long lance of

flame reached through the door crack, the hollowpoint Magnum round smacking into

the unseen creature and blowing off an eye stalk. The mutie gave out a

high-pitched squeal, as greenish blood squirted onto the jamb. Stepping back,

Krysty fired and missed, the slug ricocheting into the darkness. Ryan shot from

the hip, and the claw blocking the door shattered, spraying green blood and

gobbets of white flesh everywhere. Shrieking in pain, the creature scuttled into

the darkness and the companions shoved the door shut with an echoing boom.

Dropping the Uzi, J.B. forcibly drove home the locking bolt, making sure it was

solidly engaged. A split second later, something slammed into the door on the

other side, then scratched the metal as if trying to dig through. Quickly, the

companions retreated a few yards.

"Fucking crab," Ryan muttered.

"No way we're going in there again without light and lots more blasters," Krysty

said, catching her breath. "Mebbe we better recce the top levels to see if Silas

left anything useful behind."

"Doubtful," J.B. said, retrieving the Uzi. "But it's our best bet. At least the

microwaves have stopped."

"Have they?" Jak asked pointedly.

Pensively, Dean looked up the stairs. "Could the Kite thing still be whatever,

you know, beaming micros at us?"

"Perhaps they have simply lowered the intensity," Doc suggested. "But if we open

a door in the upper levels, we start to fry again."

"Any way we can check?" Krysty asked.

"Maybe there is," Mildred said, rummaging in the pockets of her fatigues. "Ah,

found it."

Carefully, she unrolled a tiny silver ball, the crumpled wrapper from the stick

of gum from a MRE pack. Flattening the wad of metallic paper until it was

relatively smooth, she then neatly folded it once. Doc already had his sword

out, and she slid the folded piece of foil over the tip of the steel shaft.

Blaster in hand, Ryan understood what the two were doing. "Stay sharp," he said.

"If the redoubt is no longer under attack, then we might get some company."

"Blue shirts," Dean said hatefully. The boy had his Browning in one hand, the

Bowie knife in the other.

"Couldn't be anybody else," J.B. said, flipping a switch on the side of the Uzi

with his thumb. The weapon felt uncommonly light.

"I want a three-on-three formation, with Doc in the lead," Ryan continued. "We

go soft and silent, retreat if possible. If not, Jak, you got your throwing

knives ready?"

The albino teenager bolstered his Colt Python and flexed both hands. Black

knives with leaf-shaped blades slid from inside his sleeves. "Throat," the

teenager advised coldly, announcing his targets. "Can't breath, can't shout."

"Ready," Ryan said.

Extending the sword far out in front, Doc proceeded up the stairs at a slow

pace. The steps were solid slabs of concrete, smoothed to a mirror sheen. The

companions made no sounds as they slowly went higher and higher into the

redoubt. There were no signs whatsoever of the base having taken any damage from

the microwaves. The doors leading to the other levels weren't discolored or

warped, no indications of scrap paper having caught on fire, the wall

extinguishers hadn't burst. The leakage getting past the nuke armor of the base

had to have just been enough to almost chill them, but that was all.

An hour later, the companions reached the topmost level of the base. Pausing at

the stairwell door, Doc cocked the hammer of his LeMat, then eased the door open

a crack and poked his sword through. The tiny scrap of metallic paper fluttered

slightly in the breeze of the life-support system, nothing more. Withdrawing the

sword, he widened the crack and glanced around the garage. Nobody was in sight.

"Clear," Doc whispered, flicking the piece of chewing-gum wrapper off the tip of

his sword and sheathing the blade.

Ryan replaced the old man at the door, listening for the sounds of movement

beyond. The silence was thick and heavy. Gesturing to the others to stay, and

with Krysty and J.B. standing by the door ready to give cover fire, the one-eyed

warrior slipped into the next room. Keeping low, Ryan darted from worktable to

empty barrel, grease pit to stack of tires, never fully exposing himself until

completing a full circle of the cavernous garage.

A hundred wags should have been parked here in storage—Hummers, APCs, trucks and

even tanks, with drums of fuel and oil stacked in the storage bins behind wire

gates. Workbenches lined the walls, the pegs above them empty of tools. Only the

taped outlines of what should be there remained. Nothing was in sight, not a

spare wrench or wiper blade.

"All clear," Ryan announced, standing in plain view and bolstering his piece.

"You can still see our bloody footprints on the floor. The tracks go straight to

the stairwell door, nowhere else. None of them have been smudged. We're alone."

"Good," Krysty stated, tucking away her weapon and nudging Mildred. "What's with

the chewing-gum wrapper?"

"Sort of an early-warning system," Mildred said, looking over the garage. "It

wouldn't give us much advance notice of microwaves, but some is better than

none."

"How does it work?" J.B. asked, easing off the bolt of the Uzi. The blaster had

been under undue tension for days while they were unconscious. He only hoped the

spring was okay and the rapidfire would still function properly.

Taking a seat on a pile of tires, Doc answered. "If there is a strong magnetic

field, or the presence of microwaves, the foil will receive an identical charge

across its entire surface and the two flaps will naturally repel each other,

separating wide and fast. As long as they stay closed, we were not near any

strong electromagnetic fields."

"Pretty good trick," Ryan grunted. "The white-coats in your day knew about

microwaves and sats, huh?"

Doc started to reply, then his features contorted in confusion. Conflicting

emotions played across the time traveler's face, bordering on blind panic. The

companions said nothing and turned their backs on the old man to continue

exploring the garage. After what the whitecoats of Overproject Whisper had done

to Doc, his friends understood if his mind wandered sometimes. He always came

back, and he had never let them down in a fight. At least, not yet.

"Doesn't matter," Krysty said softly to Doc. "As long as it works."

Her voice seemed to calm the old man, and Doc faced the redhead, reason

returning to his eyes. "Oh, most assuredly, dear lady," he said, displaying his

oddly perfect white teeth. "The laws of magnetics are most adamantine. It works.

Trust me."

"I always have."

Jak gestured with his blaster. "Check outside?"

Nodding, Ryan led the way along the zigzagging corridor to the front door. The

passageway was wide enough to accommodate a semi-truck, and clusters of

fluorescent lights hung from the high, curved ceiling.

"Dad, I always meant to ask, why does this zigzag?" Dean probed.

"Rads can only travel straight," Ryan said, slowing his pace. "They go right

through stone or metal, but lead stops them. That's what these walls are lined

with yards of lead. So one step out of the way and you're safe. All these extra

sharp angles are just to be sure. One would do just as good a job."

Pursing his lips, the boy said nothing, filing the information away. Then,

stooping to one knee, he inspected an object on the floor. "Hey, J.B., over

here!"

The Armorer turned from the hip, the Uzi poised for action. "Trouble?" he

demanded.

"Nope. Yours?" Dean asked, holding out a battered hat.

With a cry of delight, J.B. took the fedora and straightened the brim into

something presentable again. Easing it onto his head, he adjusted the angle and

grinned. "Better," he stated. "A man just can't think straight with his brain

exposed."

Reaching the end of the passage, the companions found the huge vanadium steel

doors of the exit. The material was unmarked, but it had been designed to

withstand the atomic fireball of a nuke blast. Their footprints led from the

massive slab, the floor cluttered with spent brass, a few scattered leaves and

dried splotches of green blood.

"Triple red," Ryan ordered, shifting the blaster to his left hand and using the

right to tap an access code on the keypad on the wall.

The others spread out so as to not offer a group target. The companions had left

something very hard to chill outside, and if the Kite hadn't done the job, the

bastard might still be waiting for them to emerge. Slowly, the portal rumbled

aside. Instantly, a black hurricane roared into the tunnel, the companions

staggering backward from the furious assault. The raging storm filled the

corridor with streaming waves of some kind of dark material that stuck to their

clothes and skin. Within seconds, it became impossible to see one another, much

less what was outside the redoubt. "Retreat to the garage!" Ryan shouted over

the storm, an arm held in front of his mouth as protection as he strove to key

in the code that would close the door.

Stumbling to the walls, they blindly followed the zigzagging passageway back

into the redoubt. The fierce winds pounded them every step of the way, gusts

knocking them against the walls and often to the dirty floor. Battered and

bruised, the companions were forced to grab one another's clothing for support.

As a group, they shuffled hastily away from the thundering onslaught of bitter

tasting flakes.

Charging from the howling tunnel, the companions moved out of the way of the

incoming cloud and took cover behind whatever was available, waiting for the

outer door to close. The black cloud, resembling car exhaust, poured into the

redoubt, covering everything from the grease pit to the rafters with a thick

layer of soot. Ryan couldn't hear above the whistling wind, but as the exterior

door finally closed, the storm abruptly died, whirlwinds of ash dancing across

the thickly coated floor.

"By the Three Kennedys!" Doc shouted, then lowered his voice to a normal volume.

"And what, pray tell, was that?"

Curiously, Mildred picked a flake off her encrusted shirt and watched it crumble

in her palm. "This is all that remains of this part of Tennessee," she guessed,

wiping her hand on her pants. "Should have realized this would be waiting for us

outside. After so many days of being cooked by the Kite, the land has literally

been burnt into ash."

Blue eyes staring from a blackened face, Dean blinked in wonder. "So the trees,

the bushes, the grass…"

"Gone. All gone."

"Well, shit," Jak said, giving the word two syllables. The albino felt as if he

had just escaped from the grave. The ash was inside his fatigues and already

starting to work its way into his shorts and boots. He snorted to clear his nose

and gagged on the aftertaste—fried dirt. Then he realized that's exactly what it

was.

Stomping her cowboy boots, Krysty wildly shook her head, trying to assist her

struggling hair to straighten out the tangles from the rough winds. Ash

sprinkled to the floor, forming a small cloud around the dirty woman.

"Gaia! That was worse than any Deathlands sandstorm!" Krysty complained, beating

at her clothes. "We're not going to get a single yard out of the redoubt without

masks of some kind. We'd choke to death in minutes."

"Also need ropes to keep us together," Ryan added. Wiping his blaster clean, the

man hawked and spit. Gray phlegm hit the floor. "We can make masks out of bed

sheets. That's easy enough, but pointless. There's not going to be any animals

out there to hunt for food. What the Kite didn't kill, this ash would soon

suffocate to death."

"Make good cover nightcreep blues," Jak said. Then added, "If live get there."

Breaking into a ragged cough, Dean brushed the ash from his hair and tried to

wipe off his face with a sleeve, but that only seemed to make it smear. Even

worse, his blaster had caught the brunt of the wind when the main door opened.

He couldn't risk firing the weapon until it had been thoroughly disassembled and

cleaned. Tipping the blaster downward, powdery residue poured from the barrel.

The situation was really bad. If anything attacked the group right now, they'd

be dead meat, completely unable to defend themselves.

"Dark night, this sucks," J.B. muttered, beating his hat clean on the end of a

worktable. "We got company in the tunnel, a hellstorm outside and the mat-trans

wasn't working."

"Looks like we're here for a while," Krysty agreed grimly.

Each of the companions was lost in thought for a moment as they watched the

black ash swirling about to finally settle on the garage floor in a smooth ebony

carpet.

"Enough," Ryan stated, putting as much force into the word as the tired man

could muster. "If we can't leave, then I want a level-by-level search of the

entire redoubt. There must be some food in here, tin cans, jars, MRE packs,

self-heats. Bring what you find to the control room."

"Not the kitchen?" Dean asked, puzzled.

"Eat as we work," Ryan countered. "Silas was smart, but not a genius. If he

turned off the mat-trans, then we can get it back on-line. Once we've had some

food and a hot shower, then we can get busy."

"Gonna leave?" Jak asked, frowning.

Ryan started to stride across the filthy garage, leaving a contrail of churned

ash in his wake. "Hell, no. We're going to finish the job of killing the blues,"

he said matter-of-factly. "Every one of the bastards."

Chapter Two

Thundering chaos ruled the land. Shriveled trees bowed under the violent

maelstrom, and lakes of black mud sloshed onto caked shores. Whole bushes came

out of the crunchy soil and flew away into the ash storm swirling around the

Shiloh valley.

Shuffling through the hurricane, a slavering mutie flapped its loose lips over

the long saber-toothed fangs that extended from its wide mouth. This was a good

day, it thought. Food was near. A smell of blood hung in the air, which even the

tempest couldn't hide. Something had died violently, and the mutie simply wanted

whatever was left after the slayer had eaten its fill of the prey. Fresh meat

was the best, but old meat was more tender.

As the mutie neared the top of a barren hill, the wind was so strong it had to

dig into the soil with its clawed feet to keep from becoming airborne. Step by

slow step, it relentlessly followed the odor of blood. Black ash streamed past

the creature in an endless supply, and lightning crashed in the hidden sky

above, but to its catlike eyes, the world was perfectly clear in a dozen shades

of black and white.

Eventually cresting a hill, the mutie looked down a wrong-stone thing and made

happy noises. Food lived in such places, juicy food. Correct-stone things

reached high into the sky and only four-legs lived there. It couldn't catch

those; too fast.

But wrong-stone things were flat and had many openings it could crawl through to

find the food. Two-legs tasted good, and little two-legs couldn't even fight or

run away. They merely made loud noises. Especially when eaten. It liked the

death music they made, but the little food always became quiet after only a few

bites. Big food lasted much longer, sometimes making death music for a day. Much

fun.

The mere thought of fresh blood flowing down its throat made the mutie shuffle

faster through the roiling clouds. Descending the sloped hillside, its scaled

legs sank into the softened soil, going to its knees, sometimes going all the

way to its hips. At one point, the world disappeared as it sank below the

churning material. But soon its claws found hard soil, and the creature dug back

into the storm where it was warm and safe.

Circling around a large boulder, something crunched under its foot, and the

mutie dived upon the ground, hoping it was a fresh bone. But the broken thing

was only the skull of a norm. A colony of worms writhed inside, the gray meat of

the brain all gone. Annoyed, the mutie threw the skull away. It knew better than

to try to eat the little worms. Even if chewed into pieces, they didn't die, and

would eat their way out of a belly. That was a bad thing, because then nobody

else could eat the body of the fresh dead, or else the little worms might also

consume them. Thunder ruled the sky, rogs ruled under the dirt and the tiny

worms ruled the dead.

The mutie paused as the word strangely resonated in its twisted mind. Born of

distant human ancestry, the rad-blasted being felt questions about the odd

life-forms start to form in the back of its lopsided head, but they faded before

becoming fully formed. The shriveled lumps of its frontal lobes and anterior

pons were utterly incapable of processing the simple data of a direct question.

Dropping to its hands and feet, the mutie start galloping toward the wrong-stone

place. It could vaguely smell the two-legs and the fresh blood. There had to be

much food to make such a strong smell, maybe more than fingers and toes

combined. What a feast!

Then the monstrosity recoiled as another odor was detected by its single

quivering nostril. Bad water, the stinky blood of metal-things-that-moved.

Two-legs , were always near bad water. It made you sick many suns if drunk. But

they guarded bad water like kin. Maybe they worshiped it? Bad water, also meant

boom sticks. When a boom stick spoke, the mutie would feel pain as its body

jerked and blood began to flow from a tiny mouth that hadn't been there before.

It couldn't understand how the noise could do this, but the boom sticks hurt

very bad. They were to be avoided whenever possible.

Thankfully, the boom sticks were the only defense of the two-legs. The food

couldn't see well in the dark, and barely heard anything. Grabbed from behind,

the two-legs could only sing as it ate the meat and drank the warm blood.

Two-legs were easy to kill.

The mutie smacked oversized lips, remembering when it had once gotten a small

two-legs from the belly of its mother. The flesh was even more tender than a

rotting corpse. Hopefully, there would be many of the wiggly two-legs, and it

could take a couple back to the hive and trade them to the females for a chance

to climb on top of them and thrust between their legs. That was the best of all

things.

Clamoring down a short embankment, the mutie sloshed through a sluggish creek,

the mud almost thick enough to walk on. Reaching the other side, it crawled up

the bank and started slithering along the ground toward the wrong-stones. It

could clearly see a huge gap in the stones, the opening filled with shiny-sharps

and the thin humming vines that killed when touched.

Ducking behind the burned wreckage of a wag, the mutie burrowed into the ash and

started to wriggle toward the waiting food. The smell of the blood nearly drove

it mad, and it moaned in hunger, the guttural noise sounding almost exactly like

the howling wind.

FOUR MUMMIES of cloth stood huddled before the wide gap in the stone block wall

that surrounded the Tennessee ville. Oily rags were wrapped around their

longblasters in an effort to keep out the windblown ash. The rags helped, but

using the Kalashnikovs made them jam almost immediately. The ash got inside the

breech mechanism through the barrel. Some sort of ribbed plastic covered the

vented ends of the blasters, but after the first shot that meager protection

disintegrated from the muzzle-blast. The sec men knew they could get off only

one or two rounds before the fancy rapidfires would become totally useless.

Sergeant Tucholka had suggested tying knives to the ends of the rifle barrels,

but the guards refused. A knife on the end of a stick was what farmers carried

as weapons, not sec men. Besides, if anybody got that close, they'd just use the

knives properly—a quick thrust into the belly, a slice across the throat and

loot the body before anybody else arrived.

Even masked by the storm, the base was a tiny oasis of green grass in the middle

of a hellish vista. The wall encircling the ville held off the worst of the

wind, but the ash peppered the buildings with brutal force, shoving sec men

along the ground. The blues walking patrol tied themselves to posts driven into

the ground to keep from tumbling away. With their faces wrapped in multiple

layers of cloth for protection, the sec men could breath in the thick air, but

no sounds or words would carry beyond a few feet, with visibility stopping at a

few yards. If the orange clouds above flashed with lightning or rumbled with

thunder, they had no idea. Even though they knew for a fact that the huge

predark dish antenna rose above the ville, taller than a hundred men and wider

than a twenty-minute run, they couldn't even see the concrete blockhouse it used

as a support base for its massive steel girders and reinforcing struts. Ten men

died walking off the cliff near the abandoned stone quarry before Major

Sheffield, rather, Baron Sheffield, forbade any more patrols outside the wall.

The ash storm utterly ruled the Shiloh ville.

Shifting weight from foot to foot, the sec men at the wall endured the raging

storm, wishing they were stationed at the front gate. Those lucky bastards were

safe inside a brick kiosk with windows and a stove. Probably had a dancing slave

and were drinking beer, too. Then one of the guards jerked his head around, and

took a half step forward.

"I just heard that weird noise again!" the private shouted, sliding his

longblaster off a shoulder and clumsily working the bolt. Advancing to the end

of the rope, he tried to see into the howling maelstrom. Ash and dust. Nothing

else.

"Hey, me too!" added another.

"It's nothing," Tucholka muttered, hunched beside the burned wreck of a predark

tank. Its thick armor was badly warped from the slave revolt, but the titanic

wag still offered some degree of protection from the stinging debris. "Just the

freaking wind! Told you that already!"

The second private stared at the hole in the wall. "You sure?"

"Shut up! I was trying to sleep!"

"You moron!" a corporal shouted in disdain. "That's how you got in trouble in

the first place!"

Tucholka sneered at the man, then realized he couldn't be seen. "Stuff it,

asshole!" the sergeant roared. "That's an order!"

The corporal yelled something that he couldn't hear and turned his back on the

man. Saying nothing, the privates merely shifted position to keep a closer watch

on the vulnerable gap in the ville defenses. Under the iron leadership of Silas

Jamaisvous, the blues had captured hundreds of people from the surrounding

communities, farms, hamlets and just people passing through Tennessee, forcing

the slaves to dig huge stone blocks from the side of a nearby hill and build the

great wall. The rock was only limestone, not granite, but it took power tools to

carve granite and wags to move the massive loads. Nobody sane would give such

things to slaves, no matter how well they were chained and watched.

The slaves had tried to get free anyway and had been dealt with harshly. Lacking

any more workers, the wall remained unfinished with a single fifty-foot-wide gap

in its expanse, a doorway perfect for cold-hearts and mercies, although muties

were the real danger these days. The creatures seemed to be attracted to the

dish for some reason. Maybe it was the soft hum of the transformers, or maybe

they could see the microwaves beaming down from space to feed the ville

electricity. Nobody knew for sure, and the muties weren't talking.

The hole was blocked as best as possible, stuffed solid with barbed wire and

electrified with enough current to chill a horse. But armed men still had to

stand vigil at the weak point of the perimeter. It was punishment duty, and they

knew it. The sarge was guilty of sleeping on duty, the corporal stole shine from

the kitchen and both privates had traded food to slaves for sex. Each of them

had been caught in the act, whipped for disobeying orders, reduced in rank and

assigned here as a last chance. One more mistake and they would be put in chains

as the first of the new replacement slaves.

Wisely, each decided to eat a handblaster before going into chains. They knew

what happened to slaves during the dark and lonely nights.

"Death before dishonor," the tall private muttered loudly, the words muffled

through his heavy mask.

The loose ends of his wrappings lashing madly about, the corporal turned. "Huh?

What was that?"

"Something my maw used to say every time she got ganged by the baron and his

sons! Don't know 'xactly what it means, but she put a lot of stock in it as a

curse!"

"Crap!" Tucholka yawned. "Rape is all sluts are good for! That, and cooking!"

The tall private bobbed his head. "My maw couldn't cook worth shit!"

"Which is why she got rode so much! See?"

"You're pretty smart, sir!" the second private said.

"Ain't a sergeant for nothing!"

Suddenly, a figure rose amid the barbed wire of the gap and grabbed the nearest

sec man by the chest, the taloned fingers cutting deep into the cloth, ripping

away a fistful of flesh through the encrusted rags. Blood gushed from the

hideous wound, and the lifeless sergeant fell as the figure stuffed the still

beating heart into its drooling mouth.

"Rad me! Muties!" the tall private screamed, firing his blaster.

Surging into action, the others cut loose with their Kalashnikovs, but the

stuttering weapons got off only four or five rounds before jamming. The huge

invader staggered from the impact of the 7.62 mm rounds, but didn't drop.

As they frantically struggled to clear the jams, the wind slowed for a second

and the sec men got a clear glimpse of the mutie: giant fangs protruded from a

grotesque face with one nostril and three bulging eyes. Twice the size of a

norm, its whole body was covered with mottled skin, and long claws sprouted from

the knuckles of stubby hands.

Swinging his blaster like a club, the short private charged the mutie. It

blocked the attack easily and grabbed him by the face, its claws sinking into

the wrapping and ripping off most of his skin. Shrilly screaming, the man stood

transfixed, naked eyeballs staring from a visage of raw flesh and bare teeth.

As the mutie wasted moments consuming the dripping gobbet, the other guards

slashed the ropes holding them in place. Even as the dying private collapsed,

the creature charged the remaining sec men and they desperately dived out of the

way. The mutie slammed hard into the tank, its claws raising sparks as they

raked along the predark armor.

Struggling with his longblaster, the tall private got off another shot, and the

mutie screamed as fingers exploded off its hand. Hooting in pain, it kicked out

a clawed foot. Backing up, the corporal cursed as the wrappings were ripped

away, exposing his bare chest with three thin lines across his flesh oozing

droplets of blood. Death had missed by the thickness of a shirt.

"Ass sucker!" he shouted, and insanely charged, slamming the butt of his rifle

into the thing's misshapen face. The wooden stock cracked from the force of the

blow, fangs and yellow blood spraying into the storm.

The remaining private ducked low and slashed at its belly, but only scored a

deep cut in the mutie's hip. The creature stabbed for his throat, and he raised

the rifle to block. The weapon was knocked from his grip by the powerful blow,

and the corporal stabbed the creature in the back of the neck from behind.

Instantly, the being tried to turn, but was barely able to move with its spinal

column damaged.

The corporal roared in anger and twisted the knife hard.

The mutie jerked wildly as if being hit with bullets from a dozen different

directions. A chance blow from a flailing arm took the corporal across the face,

and there was a crunch as his nose shattered. Blood began to spread across the

cloth wound around his head.

"Son of a bitch!" he mumbled, and shoved the knife in deeper, then jerked it

loose to plunge it in again and again. "Dirty filthy mutie bastard!"

Shouting obscenities, the sec man slashed the creature across the belly, then

upward. Writhing entrails slithered into view. As the dying creature fell to the

ground, it weakly snapped at the nearest man, almost biting him in the groin.

Dropping their useless blasters, the guards savagely fell upon the thing, wildly

hacking at the body until it was in several pieces. Then they stomped the

remains under their combat boots, anger and fear fueling their rage. Minutes

passed with only the sounds of their labored breathing and the snap of bones

faintly discernible over the moaning storm.

THE PLEXIGLAS WINDOWS of the large brick building rattled from the force of the

wind. The main door was bolted shut, and heavy blankets hung from the lentil,

cutting the wind whenever somebody entered or departed. That helped, but it

didn't completely stop the pervasive black grit from sweeping across the armory

every time the door was used.

Sitting in the fireplace was an electric heater, the bright red coils steadily

sending out waves of soothing warmth. Numerous gun racks dotted the wall. One

held revolvers and boxes of ammo, another contained pump-action shotguns, while

the rest were filled with AK-47 assault rifles, the metal shiny with fresh oil,

the wooden stocks gleaming with polish. Stacks of loaded clips filled shelves,

along with neat piles of ammo boxes. Crates of grenades were piled on the floor

next to trunks of MRE packs. Originally, this building had been the armory for

the Complex, but was now in the process of becoming the throne room for the new

baron of Shiloh ville. William Sheffield always kept his weapons close, and his

enemies dead, as the old saying went.

An air conditioner was nestled in the wall, its front masked with a heavy

blanket and a lot of gray tape. Something rattled nonstop inside the machine,

the noise fluctuating with every gust. On a small table, off in a corner by

itself, a shortwave radio was hardwired to a nuke battery from a military

vehicle. The speakers hissed with the usual background of static from the

isotopes in the atmosphere. A coffeemaker bubbled softly on a sideboard, serving

trays heavily laden with loaves of canned bread, slices of canned meat, and gray

military cheese. A bottle of shine stood near some glasses and a box of cigars.

A dozen sec men armed with AK-47s lounged before the fireplace, sipping coffee

from ceramic mugs, smoking cigs and cleaning their blasters.

Sitting prominently in the middle of the enormous room was an ornate chair

holding a big man who was reading computer printouts. A willowy blonde stood

nearby, watching over his shoulder and making low comments and suggestions.

The man was tall and heavily muscled, his neck and hands corded with hard

tendons. He was wearing a crisp blue shirt and matching pants, the boots glossy

with polish. A huge .50-caliber Desert Eagle pistol rested in a hip holster,

with a sleek 9 mm Heckler & Koch pistol riding in a shoulder rig. A white scarf

was tied about his thick neck, more to keep out the draft than for any sartorial

effect. His thick black hair was cut short, and a pattern of tiny round scars

marked the left side of his face. It looked as if he had taken a shotgun blast

directly into the face and had somehow survived. The truth was much more painful

than that.

"Fucking weather," Baron Sheffield cursed, listening to the storm rage outside.

Laying aside the report, he sipped at a mug of coffee, making a bitter face.

"Bah!" he said, throwing the cup onto the floor. "The blasted ash is into

everything! The food, blasters…I’m surprised it isn't inside the fucking ammo!"

Thumbing live rounds into an empty clip, a sergeant asked, "How long can we

expect the weather to be like this, my lord?"

"Another week, possibly more," Sheffield replied dourly, leaning forward in his

chair. "Silas was an ass. Using the Kite to blast the whole countryside has only

destroyed our food supply." The baron pulled a Tekna knife from his belt and

imagined what he would have done to the old fool before allowing him to finally

die. He was the fool for waiting so long before torturing the whitecoat. Silas

would have told him everything! Eventually.

"Mebbe when the rains come…" a corporal started.

"The acid rain?" Sheffield stressed the word. "That'll only make things worse,

not better, fool. How can farmers grow crops in ash with acid. Hell, there

aren't any fields in this valley anyway."

"That problem is a long way in the future, sir," a corporal stated, smirking.

"Is that right?" Sheffield demanded coldly. "How comforting."

"Besides," a lieutenant quickly said to cover the blunder, "I thought there was

plenty of food in the Quonset, sir." His voice was odd, scratchy and twisted.

Two bullet scars marked either side of his throat, and there was a white patch

in his dark hair where a slave's ax had struck, but failed to kill.

Sheffield scowled at the sec man. "We have six tons of MRE packs in the

warehouse," he stated. "Our last gift from Dr. Jamaisvous. After that's gone,

we'll be forced to get food from hunters and farmers as we used to do."

The corporal arched an eyebrow. "But sir, there are no more farms in the Shiloh

valley!"

"Exactly. What the Kite didn't destroy, the ash has polluted. There won't be any

new crops around here for years, mebbe decades."

"My lord," the blond woman said, "I have seen you use the Kite to break up acid

rain storms and drive them away. Can't you do the same now with the ash?"

Thoughtfully, Sheffield stared at her. It was a smart suggestion. Collette never

failed to surprise him. She was the only woman wearing the blue shirt of a sec

man at the Shiloh Complex. Captured from a caravan passing through Tennessee,

her youth and beauty had sent the girl directly to the gaudy house. She was

attractive despite a large nose. The golden blond hair, emerald green eyes and

her big breasts made men think of her only as a hot slut. Yet during the slave

revolt, she had fought with the sec men against the other slaves. When the

revolt was finished, she directed the grave diggers. That got her out of the

chains, and because of her special talents, she soon became his bed warmer. Then

over the long months, a lover, somebody he could talk to, and confide with.

Collette was uneducated, but smart, and always gave good advice.

When Silas died and Sheffield took over the base, he needed somebody he could

trust to be the new sec chief, so he gave the job to Collette. A few of the

blues grumbled over the matter. A former slave as their chief? It was an

outrage! She fucked a couple, killed the rest and the men now obeyed her without

question. That was when Sheffield discovered how good a fighter she was. Lean

and strong, Major Collette was a chilling machine, an expert with blaster and

knife. Plus, she sharpened her thumbnails daily, caring for them like a good

blaster. Sheffield once saw her remove a man's eyes with those nails. The orbs

popped right out, then she bit through the ganglia and spit the bloody orb back

at the man's shocked face. Nobody fought with Collette after that incident.

The tattoo of a broken knife blade encircled by a ring of barbed wire was on the

back of her left hand. The work was delicate, expertly done with lamp oil and a

sharp pencil. The process was known to hurt like hell, yet Collette had done it

to herself. As befitting her position, the woman was in good combat boots, loose

denims and a blue shirt. A machete hung at her hip, while a small-caliber

wheelgun was tucked into her belt and an Ingram M-10 machine pistol slung over a

shoulder.

Under the frank appraisal of the baron's gaze, Collette smiled. Secrets were

power in the Deathlands. Before Sheffield, she had been with Silas many times,

but never as man and woman. She merely used her hands to satisfy the whitecoat.

Some spit in her palm, and a few minutes later he was sound asleep. They all

thought he was fucking her, more the fools they. But once he was out, she would

steal food, look at the books and practice fighting techniques where nobody

could watch. When the time came to act, she was more than ready. The private

training got her out of the slave pens, and would someday make her the baron of

a ville. Not even Sheffield knew she could read and write. When playing with his

hair, or massaging his shoulders, the woman was also reading the reports he

held. She knew more about the status of the ville than anybody, including the

baron.

Collette had been very pleased when Sheffield chose her to be the new sec chief.

It saved her the trouble of chilling the person chosen had it not been her. If

everybody simply stayed out of her way and did as ordered, there would be a lot

fewer corpses in the world.

"No, my dear, I do not dare to use the Kite," Sheffield said reluctantly,

returning to the conversation. "It might make the weather worse, and if the

winds get any stronger the dish will get damaged, even though it's already

lashed down with every spare foot of chain we have. If it topples over, we're

defenseless until it's repaired."

"Can the dish be moved?" she asked.

What an odd question. He gestured at the shaking windows. "Not at the present,

no. The mil wags can still run in this muck, but the trucks and diesels stall

the moment the air filter gets clogged."

"Machines need to breathe," She chuckled. "I've always found that so amusing."

"Have you, my dear?" the baron asked softly.

Collette smiled sweetly and nestled closer to the big man, making no verbal

reply.

A sec man scraped his pipe clean with a small knife and loaded the bowl with a

pinch of shagcut soaked in whiskey. "Storm ain't slowing or stopping for

awhile," he said, holding a flame to the bowl. "Plenty of time to decide what to

do next."

"Perhaps," Collette countered rudely. Rising from her position, she turned to

the baron. "Why don't you give me the access code for the Quonset hut and I'll

have a full inventory on the supplies done."

"Nobody goes in there but me, or people I want in there," he stated, partially

drawing the Tekna knife. "Ask again, Collette, and I'll slit your throat."

Rubbing her nose, the woman smiled. "I see that you have learned from the

mistakes of Silas," she purred.

Sheffield grunted and sheathed the blade. Damn the bitch and her mind games.

Always testing, always prying. Probably wanted to be baron herself someday. He'd

have to watch out for that. "The whitecoat was an idiot. Burning the pollution

from the land is a good plan. More crops means more people to rule. But to try

and clean the land and air for the whole world? Who cares? Let them die, man and

mutie."

"Just save the women," a sec man said with a chuckle, and the others joined the

laughter.

On impulse, Sheffield grabbed his sec chief around the waist and pulled her

close until warm breasts were pressed against his face.

"Sounds good," he mumbled, biting the fabric and the soft flesh underneath.

"Might as well fuck. Not much else to do, but wait."

"Bedroom," Collette suggested, pressing harder against the man and spreading her

legs a bit to guide his free hand between her thighs.

"They can watch," he growled, almost ripping open her shirt in his haste to

expose her breasts. God, he loved those big milkers! They spilled free, and he

ran rough palms over the large nipples. "Let them see how a real man does it."

"As you wish, my lord," she demurred, raking her nails through his hair.

Just then, a loud knock sounded at the door. Quickly, the sec men raised their

blasters and assumed firing positions, as a corporal brandishing a handcannon

walked across the room and threw the bolt. A blast of smoky air heralded a

figure in bloody rags, the hash marks of a corporal barely visible through the

layer of ash. He clutched a longblaster with a shattered stock and a badly bent

barrel.

"Report," Sheffield snapped, shoving the woman away.

"My lord, we've been attacked," the corporal said without preamble, yanking the

cloth from his face. "A mutie got in through the hole and aced two of us. My

private and I finally stopped the thing, but we lost three men and a blaster

chilling it."

"How did this happen?" Collette demanded, tucking the loose shirt into her pants

without buttoning it closed. "Asleep on duty again, eh?"

"In this storm?" the corporal snapped. "It's the damn blasters! They jam after

only a few shots. We had to take out the mutie with knives!"

"What about the Claymores?" Sheffield demanded, rising from his throne.

"None of them went off, sir. Ain't worth shit."

"Fuses are set wrong again," the baron muttered, worrying a fist. "Lieutenant

Brandon, get on the intercom and assign more troops to the gap immediately. Then

order the last two war wags to shove that dead tank into the gap. That'll cut

the hole down from fifty feet to twenty. And have somebody reset the fuses!"

"Yes, sir!" the officer replied. He strode across the room to a distant table

and started to press buttons on a small control panel. A tired voice answered

from the speaker, and he replied in a harsh tone.

Furious, a sergeant spit on the floor. "Shitfire!" he growled. "What are we

going to do about these fucking blasters? No matter what we do, no matter how

much cloth we wrapped around them, they always jam!"

Glumly, a private added, "If the slaves ever find out, we'll have another

revolt."

"Got that right," another sec man agreed succinctly.

With a curse, Collette swung her squat Ingram around to point it at a musician

chained to a chair near the fireplace. The slave continued to softly blow a

happy song on her harmonica. She hadn't been told to stop and knew better than

to disobey a command.

"Whoa there, sir! Ain't no need for that. Lorna is okay," a private said,

stepping between the two women. "Totally faithful to the blues, she is. Good as

a dog."

"Idiot," Collette snarled, snapping the arming bolt. "Slaves are faithful only

to the whip."

The private turned to the baron. "Sir?" he asked hopefully.

"Kill them both," Sheffield ordered calmly. "I won't have fools working for me

as bodyguards."

The sec man gasped and Collette fired from the hip, the chattering machine

pistol hosing a stream of soft-lead rounds. The trooper tried to dodged out of

the way and failed, his body spinning to topple onto the dirty floor. Unable to

move, the girl simply continued to play the harmonica until the bullets came her

way, slamming her backward against the chair. The tattered body slumped forward

to dangle limply from the chains, the broken harmonica tumbling away to land in

the fireplace next to the electric heater.

"Anybody ever speaks like that in front of a slave gets more of the same,"

Collette stated, slapping in a fresh clip. "We kill with blasters, but rule

through fear. Understand?"

The men murmured agreement, trying to ignore the splashes of blood and gore

adorning their uniforms.

"Wh-what about me, sir?" the wounded corporal asked hesitantly.

As if debating options, Sheffield waited a minute before answering. "You did

good, Trooper. Go see the healer about that wound, then get some sleep. You

deserve a rest. No patrols for a week. You're assigned to the bunker."

"Yes, sir!" He smiled and gave a crisp salute. The sec man hurried past the

corpses and throne, heading down a long hallway for a distant section of the

armory.

"That was generous," Collette commented, shouldering her blaster.

"Carrot and the stick," Sheffield replied. "Only a fool tries to rule by only

one of those." Loosening the scarf around his neck, the baron sat in the throne

chair and pulled the maps closer. "Lieutenant Brandon, take some men and drag

the bodies outside. We'll save them for later in case we run low on food for the

slaves."

"Right now?" the officer asked, glancing at the billowing blanket covering the

closed door. "But sir, the storm gets worse at night."

Sheffield lowered a map and said nothing, merely staring at the soldier.

Swallowing hard, the lieutenant gathered his weapon and joined the other sec men

at the door. Covering their faces with masks of cloth, one by one the men slid

under the blanket and out into the roaring tempest.

"Now we're alone." Collette smiled, removing her shirt completely.

"Later," the baron snapped, studying a map. "I have an idea that might solve our

present problem nicely."

She leaned closer, letting him feel the warmth of her skin. "Tell me," the woman

encouraged.

"We can't move the dish," he said, tracing a river on the paper with a finger,

"but mebbe, just mebbe…"

"What?"

"Mebbe we can find another one."

Chapter Three

Separating into teams, the companions did a fast sweep of the subterranean base,

going from level to level in quick procession. The base was larger than most,

the half hour deadline stretched to the limit before the companions reconvened

in the control room.

"Find anything?" Ryan asked as the others arrived. The man was standing in the

control room, drinking from a canteen. On the floor, a pair of legs stuck out of

the open access panel of the main console.

"We're alone," Mildred reported. "That's for sure."

"Good. Any food?"

Wearily, Krysty took a seat at a control board covered with twinkling lights.

"Not a thing in the kitchen, or in the freezers," she said, a smudge of ash on

her cheek. "There's all the water we could want, laundry facilities seem to

work, a hundred soft beds. Just no food or weapons."

The big man frowned. "Nothing?"

"Not a grain of rice or a split bean. Zero."

"Damn."

Glancing across the room, Dean asked, "Any luck with the mat-trans unit?" The

door to the chamber was closed as always, and a small sign on the door warned of

no entry beyond that point for any personnel below B12 security levels.

"No bombs, it if that's what you mean," J.B. said, sliding out from the interior

of a panel. The console seemed to be completely filled with endless wires.

"Unfortunately, I have no idea why it won't work. Everything is in place and

looks in good shape. But then, I have no idea how the mat-trans chamber works in

the first place."

"Nobody does anymore," Doc rumbled, leaning against a wall. "Indeed, few did

when it was brand-new. Now this is all lost technology. A virtual Atlantis

underground."

"Damnedest thing," Mildred said, sounding puzzled, her face scrunched. "This

control room is in pristine condition. Last time we were here, this place was

busted to pieces from a major firefight, bullets holes everywhere and spent

brass underfoot. Now it looks brand-new."

"You noticed that, eh? Us too," Ryan said, brushing a hand across the shiny top

of the vid display. There wasn't even any dust, except for what they brought

with them from the garage. "I think the old bastard repaired this redoubt for

some reason. Mebbe by stealing parts from others."

Just then the door to the mat-trans unit opened and Krysty walked out. "The

machine is still dead," she announced glumly.

"Broken?" Dean asked, digging in a pocket. "I found some tools in a drawer. Not

much, just pliers and a few screwdrivers."

"Deactivated, more likely," J.B. said, accepting the tools and stuffing them

into a pocket. "Silas wasn't fool enough to smash his only way out of here."

Ryan glared at the banks of comp screens, the blinking cursors in each corner of

the monitors waiting for commands to be given. "Fireblast, and only he would

know the codes to turn it back on."

"Indeed, and it shall be most difficult to get them now, since you so

permanently removed his head," Doc observed, twirling his stick.

"Wouldn't have told us the truth anyway," J.B. growled.

"Let me have a look," Doc suggested. Moving from console to console, the old man

studied the comp screens intently. "This one seems to be the master," he

declared at last. "All of these bases have similar setups, and this is usually

the screen that lights up whenever we arrive."

"Got an idea?" J.B. asked, coming closer. "Let's hear it."

"I am going to try a hard reboot," Doc announced, opening the access panel to

each console. Wiring and circuit boards were exposed in an endless array. "I

shall just turn the whole system off, then back on."

"Won't that crash the system permanently?" Dean asked in real concern.

"It does not work now. Do you have an alternative suggestion?"

"Nope."

"Anyone else?" Doc asked, his hand resting on a keyboard.

The companions mulled over the plan, but couldn't suggest a viable alternative.

The matter settled, Doc continued to open the access door to each console until

he found the main power switch on the surge protector. The insulated box was in

plain sight under the first console, nothing more than a simple toggle switch

with a glowing indicator.

"This should kill the entire system," he said, placing a finger on the switch.

"Ready?"

"Hit it," Mildred said. "The sooner we know, the better."

Doc flipped the glowing red switch and stepped back. The panel lights died

instantly, and the control room grew silent as the comp hum died away. Only the

ceiling lights remained bright, as those used a different circuit. Doc waited a

few minutes for the capacitors to fully discharge, just in case the comps had

crash protectors, then hit the master switch once more.

A dozens beeps heralded the return of the indicator lights, whole panels

becoming illuminated. Every monitor brightened as the screens began to crawl

with diagnostics as the system rebooted, then the comps did a systems check and

began to scroll command codes.

"Work?" Jak asked, craning his neck to see over the others.

"Yes and no," Doc said hesitantly. "It looks like the unit is fully functional

again, but we are still not going anywhere. It is asking for a password."

"Never did before," Dean stated.

J.B. shrugged. "It was a good try."

"We're not finished yet," Mildred said, biting a lip. She reached out for the

keyboard, then withdrew her hand. "How long a code word is it asking for? Maybe

it's the code for entering the redoubt."

"No, madam, this has six astrix in a row to fill," Doc mused. Then he narrowed

his gaze and stared at Ryan.

"No," he muttered, "It couldn't be that easy."

Ryan blinked. "What?"

"There is only one way to find out." Doc typed in a name and hit the Enter key.

The comp hummed to itself for a few seconds, before coming alive, every screen

in the room flashing DOS commands with a library of numbers scrolling by at

unreadable speed. Then the monitors slowed their wild displays and resumed their

usual appearance.

"Did it work?" Krysty asked.

Ryan grabbed a chair. "Let's see." Going into the mat-trans unit, he placed a

chair inside and closed the door. Instantly, there was a telltale hum of power

flowing to the machinery and they heard an unmistakable noise of the mat-trans

unit working. Ryan waited a few moments before opening the door and there was no

sign of the chair.

"Yee-haw!" Jak whooped, throwing his arms into the air. "We back on-line!"

Tilting back his fedora, J.B. whistled. "Used your name as the reboot command,"

he said. "Man, did Silas hate you, Doc."

"And I him in return. I plan to celebrate his demise every year, and drink a

toast to the man who did the job." The old man took Ryan by the shoulders and

looked hard at him. The frank emotion on the time traveler's face was

embarrassing, but Ryan understood.

"There are three things that I must do in this world," Doc said slowly. "And now

that Silas is dead, thanking you is the most important."

"Happy to do it," Ryan answered truthfully, slapping the man on the arm. "What's

the third thing?"

Doc released his friend and turned away. "Going home to my dear Emily," he

whispered almost too softly for any of them to hear.

Suddenly, a low whining noise could be heard among the comp, closely followed by

a familiar voice. "Greetings."

The companions spun. There was nobody in sight.

"Check the corridor," Ryan directed, drawing the SIG-Sauer.

"Oh, God," Mildred gasped, pointing at a comp monitor. "It's Silas!"

Astonished, the companions gathered around the glowing screen. It was

unmistakably the dead white-coat, but not as they remembered him. This Silas was

razor thin, with gaunt eyes and hollow cheekbones. A nervous tick jumped in his

face, and his hands were those of a corpse. The picture stayed on the screen

doing nothing, not moving or breathing.

"It's a recording," J.B. said in relief, releasing his grip on the Uzi. "Must

have set it off with the reboot."

"Why isn't it talking, then?" Dean asked.

"Computers are brilliant, but stupid," Mildred said, walking to the keyboard and

tapping a key. "We have to tell it we're here."

The still shot of the scientist flicked, then spoke again. "Greetings," Silas

said in a harsh voice. "If you are hearing this, Major Sheffield, then I am dead

and have finally given you the entry code to the redoubt. I held off for so

long, Major, because I knew that once you had the code I was no longer needed.

You can operate the Kite and dish now, and as the chief of my sec men you know

the details of my plans." The picture smiled, as lovely a sight as the grave of

a child.

"Sheffield," Ryan muttered, filing the name away.

"An advisory note. There is a pistol in the CO's office. Do not use it for the

obvious reason. And do not use the door in the bottom level. The predark tunnels

are full of savage muties, but light scares them away. Well, most of the time."

"Thanks for the info," J.B. muttered.

"If it's true," Mildred warned.

The screen crackled for a moment. "The mutie outside the redoubt is for Ryan and

the others. Hopefully, it will kill them as painfully as possible. If possible,

I'll cage a puma in the art vault as a backup trap. Certainly there are lots of

them to capture in the nearby woods. If there is time, I will also have the

machines haul over more supplies and weapons from redoubt #5. The code for

gaining access to the main armory is tattooed on my leg at the hip. Simply

reverse the numbers, or else the sec hunter droids will attack."

"Crafty old bastard didn't trust a soul," Krysty observed.

"Except this Sheffield," Ryan commented coldly. He was listening to the vid, but

also paying close attention to the room behind the man. It looked like a tech

lab, with lots of comps, and a stack of rainbow disks was visible in an open

desk drawer. There was a window covered with iron bars and the silhouette of a

man holding a longblaster. This was inside the Complex they had seen before, the

old bastard's private rooms.

Pausing to mop sweat off his brow, Silas blew his nose and tucked the cloth

away. "I hope that I was able to watch Tanner die screaming for mercy." He

twitched. "Maybe the sight will even make my nightmares stop and I will erase

this disk myself. Sleep, oh, God, what I would give for some sleep without

dreams of Tanner and his bitch killing me over and over again." The man slumped

and shook as if with fever.

"I wish you well completing the Great Plan. Once the atmosphere is clean again,

normal rain will wash away the radiation, feed crops and the population will

grow quickly. Soon there will be hundreds of thousands of healthy people to

become citizens of the New America. Our America. An America of absolute law and

order."

"Baron Silas," Jak said, curling a lip.

The picture of Silas leaned toward the screen. "On a matter of security, Front

Royal defied our authority and killed our representative, Major Overton. As soon

as you have killed Dr. Tanner, assuming that I did not, then I strongly suggest

you melt the ville into the ground. It would not be wise to let the word spread

that anybody challenged our authority and lived."

"Think the ville is still there?" Krysty asked anxiously.

Trying to control the fury within, Ryan merely shrugged. There was no way of

knowing if Front Royal still stood or was only a smoking hole in the ground.

Hopefully, the unexpected death of Silas and the hunt for the companions screwed

up the plans of the blues. There may still be a chance of saving his ancestral

home. Load in another reason to ace the blues.

The vid of the old man paused for a few moments, as if to allow Sheffield to

write down the idea, then continued. "Now a couple of suggestions. Never let the

people know where you keep the computers that control the dish. Always make

somebody else your public ruler of the baronies. Let any assassin go after him,

and you can rule forever as the power behind the throne of New America."

There was a long pause. "I guess that is all. Good luck, William. Godspeed." The

picture on the monitor flickered. "Greetings," Silas said.

With a fast jab, Doc hit the Escape key and the vid disk stopped, frozen in the

middle of a word.

"Arranged for his own successor," Mildred mused. "But only told the man bits and

pieces of how things work to keep him faithful. What a paranoid."

"I liked hearing about the nightmares." J.B. grinned. "Seems as if they were

driving him insane from lack of sleep."

"Good," Doc said grimly. "Dad, if this Sheffield isn't here," Dean said slowly,

"then mebbe Silas never gave him the password."

His father nodded. "Makes sense, which means we're probably safe inside the

redoubt."

"Starving, but safe," Krysty retorted. "Although it's something of a comfort to

know a horde of blues isn't coming our way."

"Good thing you killed him when you did," Doc rumbled, twisting the handle of

his stick and drawing a few inches of steel into view only to slam it closed

again. "Or else he would have marched an army of blues in here and slaughtered

us like sheep!"

Ryan had no response for the comment. You killed an enemy on sight. That was

just common sense. He never could understand the sec men and barons who played

games and gave chances to their prisoners. Raw stupidity. Chill and live, it was

as simple as that.

"So, what now?" the big man stated, taking a seat. "Should we leave, or stay?"

"Kill blues," Jak stated angrily. "What mean, leave?"

"There's no food here," Ryan said, scratching his belly. "In a few days we'll

start to sicken and couldn't fight fish in a barrel. But mebbe we can find food

in another redoubt. Blasters, wags. Everything we need."

"We could also end on the other side of the continent," Krysty pointed out. "By

the time we get back here, this Sheffield will finish that wall and be

surrounded by hundreds of sec men. Never stop him then."

"I strongly recommend against a jump," Mildred said. "We need some time to get

back on our feet. It always makes us sick, and after three days without food, it

might kill some of us."

"Food," Jak said wistfully, his stomach rumbling.

Good. That was exactly the response Ryan had wanted. The message from Silas had

taken some of the fuel from their engines, but now they were standing tall once

more.

"Then we're agreed," Ryan said. "Okay, we search this whole place again, and I

mean search from the periscope to the reactor, break open every closet, every

desk and footlocker. See if there's anything to eat in this place, and I mean

anything—used chewing gum, herbal soap, cigars, carpenters glue, anything at

all. There has got to be some food here, and we're going to find it!"

His belly rumbling, Ryan headed for the elevator. "Come on," he said grimly.

"Let's rip this bastard place apart!"

HANDS HELD behind his back, Sheffield paced the throne room in deep thought.

"Ash storms, mutie attacks, I can't be bothered with this trivia!" he barked

petulantly. "I'm so close to victory! I know how to operate the mat-trans unit,

I know where the rest of the food and ammo are hidden. I just can't get to

them!"

"Because he never gave you the entry code," Collette said. Sitting on the edge

of a table, she had one boot on the floor, the other dangling in the air. "The

code to the redoubt, that is. I assume it isn't the same code that opens the

door to the Quonset hut?"

"Rads, no. The entry code is the last piece of information," he growled. "The

whitecoat dangled it in front of me like a worm on a hook."

"Can't we blast a way in? Or dig?" Standing still, Sheffield looked at the

woman. It was time to tell her the truth. "They're nukeproof," he stated simply.

She gawked. "What?"

"The redoubts are nukeproof. Predark bunkers full of military stores and

supplies."

"Shitfire," she whispered in shock. Then the sec chief stood. "We must gain

entry."

The baron waved that away. "Impossible! The keypad has ten numbers and

twenty-six letters. I worked the calculator program on the computer in the lab—

he was teaching me for a while until I started to learn too much—and discovered

that there are over a million combinations for the code."

Collette rubbed her nose, fingering the broken ridge of bone. "Millions, and it

would take years to tap in every one," she mused, then tilted her head. "Do you

still have the list?"

Dropping into his chair, Sheffield regarded the woman. "An interesting idea," he

said, way ahead of her. "Send somebody to the redoubt and have him tap in codes

off the list. Probably won't work, but it's only one man and worth the risk."

"A man we can trust," Collette corrected. "Once inside he becomes dangerous.

Know anybody we can trust?"

"You, perhaps?" the baron asked softly.

Sensing danger, Collette switched tactics and laughed while undoing her blouse,

then her bra. "I'm of much greater service here, my lord."

Amused, Sheffield watched as she fondled her breasts, the nipples hardening

almost immediately.

"Two men," he corrected. "A slave to do the work, and an executioner in case he

succeeds."

"Very wise, my lord," Collette whispered, undoing her gun belt and easing it

onto the table. Her pants slid to the floor, and she was wearing nothing

underneath.

"Just a gaudy slut at heart." He chuckled, unzipping his trousers. "I should

bring some slave girl in and make you do her. I know you hate that. But you'd do

it anyway for me. Wouldn't you, dear?"

Standing quietly in the corner, two young women waited for the commands to join

the baron and his lover. One was pale and trembling, a virgin to sex of any

kind. The other was swarthy and silently wept, knowing that any sound would mean

a whipping.

"Yes, it is vile. Disgusting," the naked woman whispered hoarsely, gently

fingering herself. "But ask and I'll do it. Anything you wish."

Drawing his handcannon, Sheffield placed it on a nearby table and motioned her

closer. "Then come here, bitch," he growled deep in his throat, spreading both

knees wide. "Crawl to me and beg for it!"

Dropping to the floor, the sec chief submissively approached her baron, licking

her lips. Her long blond hair hid most of her face, but her eyes stared hungrily

from amid the golden cascade, and she growled.

Sheffield watched as she knelt before the throne and took him fully into her

mouth, lips and tongue striving to please him, spittle dribbling onto his pants

as she mouthed his rock-hard cock. Soon he was breathing hard, his hips bucking,

driving the flesh harder into her mouth.

"Oh no, not yet, woman," he said, pushing her away. Standing, he removed the

rest of his clothing. "I have something else in mind for today."

"Do it," she begged from the floor, wiping her wet mouth with the back of a

hand. "Don't ask, just do it!"

In blind lust, the baron lifted her off the floor by a breast, squeezing hard to

make her whimper. Collette moaned in agony and raked her nails across his chest

and along his throbbing manhood, tracing along the shaft until he cried out.

"Bitch!" he yelled, slapping her across the face. "Please, no," Collette

whimpered, knowing that was what he liked to hear.

Laughing, the baron grabbed her by the throat and squeezed until she thought he

was really going to kill her. Panic struck, and she tried to escape, but it was

hopeless now. He was much stronger and driven mad with lust.

Slapping her again, Sheffield simply shoved himself painfully deep inside her

and started to thrust. Collette could only make inarticulate noises as he

brutally assaulted her. And she knew there was worse coming. Much worse.

When Collette was baron someday, all of the men in her ville would be in chains

and neutered, no, castrated, both cock and balls removed, sexless animals used

only to draw water, pull plows and be used as target practice. Horrid filthy

things, they should all die in screaming agony.

"Yes, more, please!" she begged, rolling her wide hips to engulf him completely.

"Stop trying to escape! You there, come hold her still!" Sheffield shouted at

the slaves.

Instantly, the girls rushed forward to assist the baron. Each grabbed an arm and

held Collette to the table.

Sheffield could barely speak, sex with Collette was so good it actually hurt

sometimes. He grunted and squeezed her hips, pounding harder, sweat dripping

onto her chest. The two hearts pounded in his chest, and he wondered if this was

why they got along so well.

A soft explosion sounded from outside the armory, somewhere to the west.

"My lord?" one of the slaves asked, her eyes wide in terror.

"Just a land mine," he grunted, blurring the words. "Another mutie must have

exploded."

"Soon," Collette agreed in a throaty whisper, thrusting hard, then shouting at

the top of her lungs. "Oh, yes! Soon, my lord, soon!"

WISPS OF STEAM rising all around her, Mildred stood in the kitchen, using a

wooden spoon to stir the contents of a huge stainless-steel pot on the main

military stove. The grayish fluid bubbled steadily and gave off a pleasant

aroma.

"How's it coming?" Dean asked hopefully. The boy dropped into a chair and tried

not to drool at the prospect of eating.

"Pretty soon," the physician replied, sprinkling some salt into the brew. No

matter how well stripped a larder may be, there always seemed to be salt left

behind. Nobody ever thought of talcing the big container. "This is purely

survival food. It'll keep us alive, but I can't guarantee the flavor. However,

it's all we have at the present."

Lugging a box full of empty whiskey bottles into the kitchen, Ryan set the crate

on one of the score of tables that filled the room. It appeared that the base

held a thousand soldiers and most of them could be fed at the same meal. "I'll

be damn. That's beef of some kind," he said, sniffing. "Where did you find it?"

"Almost beef," Mildred said, taking a sip of the brew from the spoon. "It's

boot."

Ryan frowned. "Army boot?"

"Good Lord no," Mildred said, adding another handful of tiny brown squares to

the pot. The material sank into the brew without a trace, then started to bob to

the surface. "Combat boots are mostly plastic and rubber. No nourishment there.

I found some dress shoes in the closets. The polish helped keep the leather

intact. I scraped off the plastic, that's what makes patent leather shoes so

shiny, then cut them into strips, soaked the piece in salt water for a while to

soften the material and leech out any lingering polish. Now it's in the pot."

"Boot," Jak said with a grimace. Near the sloshing dishwasher, the teenager was

using scissors to cut bedsheets into long strips. "Had worse."

"Have you indeed?" Doc asked askance, placing a fistful of lint-covered cough

drops on an empty plate. It was the only edible thing he had found. "I am

sincerely sorry to hear it, my friend."

"Not really," the teenager snorted. "Being nice."

Krysty entered the kitchen and put a cloth bag on the counter. "Got some roots

here," she said, untying the bag. Inside was a scraggly collection of withered

brown things as thin as spaghetti.

"Roots? Where the hell did you find those?"

She took a knife from a wall rack and started to dice the roots into little

pieces. "Every officer in the base had some sort of plant on his desk. I pulled

out the dead flowers and dug through the soil. Isn't much, but every little bit

helps."

Carrying the stringy material to the pot, Krysty sprinkled them into the soup

and took a whiff. "Fish?" she asked hopefully.

"Boot," Mildred said, adjusting the electric burner to a lower setting.

"Gaia, save us. Any rice or honey?" Krysty asked, randomly opening the cabinets.

As long as rice was kept dry, it would last for centuries, and honey never went

bad. Ever. It simply became a solid rock-hard mass, but once gently heated, the

stuff softened to its usual form and was as delicious as ever.

"Not a frigging tea leaf," Mildred retorted grumpily. She placed a lid on the

pot and moved to the sink for a glass of water. She opened the tap, and brown

water gushed out to slowly clear into something drinkable. "The larder was

vacuumed clean. There wasn't even an empty can in the garbage bin. Nothing but

some salt and garlic cloves."

"Like garlic," Jak said with a smile. "Makes everything taste good."

"It also goes rancid over time and will kill you," the physician said. "Ptomaine

poisoning. I threw it in the toilet."

Just then, J.B. entered the room, maneuvering around the sea of tables as he

carried a stack of boxes. "Damn, that smells good," he beamed. "What's for

dinner, Millie?"

Mildred glanced over a shoulder. "Don't ask."

His smiled faded. "That bad, eh?"

"Never mind the food. Did you find any weapons or grens?" Ryan asked. "There was

nothing in the armory, or anyplace else I searched."

The Armorer glumly shook his head. "Not a loose round. Not even empty boxes or

plastic wrapping on the floor. However, I found a Webley .44 revolver in the

CD's office. Plus a nice box of ammo."

Joining him, Ryan scowled at the blaster. "That the one that Silas mentioned?"

"Yep."

"So what's wrong with it?"

J.B. lifted the handcannon and angled it into the light. "See? The barrel is

blocked solid with iron. Pull that trigger and the back blast will remove your

arm from the elbow down."

"Can you fix it, melt out the iron?"

"No way. I plan on placing it in plain sight near the front door in case anybody

came visiting. Mebbe we can get them to shoot themselves."

Ryan lifted a cardboard ammunition box. "Worth a try. What about the ammo,

rigged?"

"You better believe it. There's no cordite inside those cartridges. They're

packed solid with plas-ex. Like loading your blaster with grens. Used that trick

myself once or twice. It works great. But see here." He reached into a pocket

and withdrew a grayish wad of something that resembled clay. "I took them apart,

and now we have half a pound of plas-ex. About two grens' worth."

"All right," Dean said, beaming in pleasure. At least it was something.

The Armorer removed his fedora and placed it on the table. "Not really," he

said, straightening the brim. "Don't have any timing pencils, detonators or any

other way to set off the plas."

"Firecracker," Jak suggested. "Only made paper and twine."

"And gunpowder. We got none to spare. Doc's LeMat is the only blaster that uses

black powder, and it's half of our remaining arsenal."

"Needs must, as the devil drives," Doc rumbled, drawing the massive weapon and

putting it on the table. He made a gesture to slide it over.

J.B. waved him off. "Thanks, but I'm working on other stuff first. Keep that

blaster loaded."

"I was thinking," Krysty said, pulling a chair away from the table and sitting

down. "Even if we had wags and ammo, how are we going to destroy the Kite? We

have nothing that can reach the sat in its orbit."

"Mebbe we could make it crash," Dean suggested.

"If we can reach the control systems, that's a good plan," Ryan agreed. The man

spread a clean towel on the table and began to disassemble the Steyr. It was

filthy with ash, and he wanted the rifle in good shape when they found ammo.

"Comp systems are easy to smash. Only one Kite, and when the comps are gone,

it's useless."

"Chilling the sat is easy," J.B. said to everyone's surprise. "Piece of cake.

The problem is getting to the base undetected."

"While on my sojourn, I chanced to peer in the periscope," Doc said, taking a

chair and pulling off his boots. The man wiggled his toes with obvious pleasure.

"The storm seems to be lessening. When it stops, why not simply walk there?"

Sliding out the bolt and removing a spring, Ryan scowled. "And get chilled.

There's no more trees outside, or bushes to hide behind. We'd be walking over

open land in plain sight. Besides, we have less than a dozen live rounds and no

usable explosives. They have motorcycles, mebbe another APC."

"Don't forget that chopper," Dean said.

"Yeah, we need a LAW rocket to take out that thing. Otherwise it'd be a death

march."

"Front gate looked like it could stop a tank, so no use trying there," J.B.

said, starting to clean his scat-tergun. "The stone wall has a gap, but the

blues will station most of their guards there."

"Nightcreep," Jak suggested, stropping a knife on a whetstone. "Steal sec man

blasters. Less them, better for us."

"Too risky. We can't steal weps from the blues until we go there, and we can't

go till we got some more blasters."

"Catch-22," Mildred muttered. Then to their questioning looks she explained,

"Predark talk for situations like this. You weren't allowed to leave the war

unless you were insane, and if you wanted to go, then you were sane. Asking to

leave meant you then had to stay, no matter what. Catch-22."

Ryan slid the bolt home and dry fired the longblaster. The rifle clicked nice

and solid. Find some ammo, and they were ready. "Our best bet is to try the

tunnel downstairs."

Krysty considered the idea. "Silas did mention the predark government had been

digging them," she said. "There could be tools in the storage lockers,

explosives for the mining, medical supplies, lots of useful things down there."

"Also a big ass mutie," Dean added. "Sounds like the same problem to me. We need

weapons to go into the tunnel to see if there are any weapons there to be

found."

"Muties aren't sec men," his father explained, starting to clean the SIG-Sauer.

The one loaded clip he placed aside reverently. "Okay, we've been through this

place from top to bottom. What can we use to make some weapons?"

"Any brooms or mops in the closets?" Krysty asked.

"Sure, lots. Army always liked things clean."

"Good. We can use those as the handles. What can we burn?"

"I found some congealed oil in the grease traps of the garage," J.B. said,

polishing his glasses with a cloth napkin. He placed them on his face and

blinked his eyes into focus. "The goo is useless for a wag, but we can soak rags

in it and make torches. Remember, that mutie at the door didn't like the light."

"Or getting shot," Dean added.

"Any chemicals we can cook into bombs?" Mildred asked.

J.B. shook his head. "Nothing explosive. Some minor poisons, and I can make a

ton of smoke bombs, but nothing deadly."

Tugging on an ear, Doc asked, "Was there any propane or oxygen remaining in the

welding tanks I saw in the garage?"

"Only a few pounds of pressure, about ten seconds' worth."

"Not enough for a flamethrower." He sighed. "Ah, well."

"We have plenty of bottles," Ryan commented, nudging the case. "Just have to

find something to put in them. Could we use the grease to make Molotov

cocktails?"

The Armorer shook his head, then stopped and nodded. "Yeah, we can." He smiled.

"I found some aftershave cologne in the barracks. That's mostly alcohol. I can

cut the grease and make mebbe a dozen cocktails."

"Thicken them a bit with laundry soap," Mildred said, turning off the heat under

the simmering pot. "That'll make it good and sticky."

"How about crossbows? Those are easy to make," Krysty said, starting to draw on

the tablecloth with a pencil. "We can form the bow from steel bedsprings. This

base has plenty of electricity. We can use the power tools to machine the shafts

and carve the stocks from table legs."

"Fletching from feather pillows," Jak stated. "But still need arrowheads."

Rising from the table, Doc crossed the cafeteria and opened a drawer. "Plenty of

knives here, although they are rather large. Could we perhaps cut them down to a

more serviceable size?"

"Absolutely. There's a grinding wheel in the garage that'll do a fine job. This

may just work."

"Hey! Remember the last time we were here and Doc almost got chilled?" Dean

asked excitedly. "Where did we put the battle-ax and bayonets from the booby

trap?"

"In the Art Room," Mildred answered. "I already checked. They're long gone."

"Shit." The boy's face slumped, then he beamed a smile and dashed away at a full

run. "The Art Room? Yeah, be right back!"

"Homemade crossbows and bedsheet torches," Ryan growled, glancing at the

doorway. "Mebbe we should risk a jump."

"Where?" Doc asked.

"Anywhere," Ryan answered, over his rumbling stomach. "Go to another redoubt,

hopefully one Silas hasn't looted, grab some food or blasters, anything useful I

find and jump back here using the LD button."

Hooking a boot under the table, J.B. leaned dangerously backward in his chair.

"Last Destination button only works for thirty minutes. That's fifteen in, and

the same out. Not much time."

"Traps," Jak added, brushing back his snowy hair. "Sec hunter droids, muties."

Ryan shrugged noncommittally. They could encounter any or all of those, it was a

standard danger with any jump. Aside from not arriving at all. But they could

also find a well-stocked armory with crates of MRE packs, LAW rockets, grens,

even Stingers and IR antihelicopter rockets. They had hit the jackpot before,

and he was sure they would do so again someday.

"Still got a few in the SIG-Sauer. That'll handle any problems," Ryan said

confidently, patting the weapon.

"Mebbe," Krysty replied. "But the mutie outside took everything we had and came

back for more. What's a 9 mm blaster going to do to another one of those?"

Thoughtfully, Ryan worked his jaw. "Yeah, I know. But what choice have we got?"

"Food first," Mildred directed, sampling the soup. It almost tasted like pork,

which was a bad sign for a beef product, but she didn't think it would cause

them any real harm.

"Found it!" Dean shouted, entering the kitchen. The boy was dragging an enormous

plastic bag with faded pictures and writing on the outside.

"What that?" Jak asked, rising to help the boy haul it to the dining table.

"Silas mentioned hiding a cat in the Art Room as a trap for us. I figured it

would have to eat, so I looked for food. Didn't see the cat, but found this bag

in the closet."

Krysty squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Smart move. None of us caught that remark.

You did good."

"Thanks," he said proudly. "'Purina Cat Chow,'" J.B. read slowly, then turned

the bag over. "Contents—rice, lamb, beef, wheat, veg oil, bunch of chems. This

sounds okay."

"Better than okay." Mildred sighed in relief. "This solves our food problems for

a while. More if we find any additional boots. Belts are good too. Less sweat to

leech out."

Doc blanched. "Madam, please!"

"Sorry, but it's the truth."

Ryan gingerly took a nugget of the cat food and tried cracking it with his

teeth. "Fireblast," he mumbled out of the side of his mouth. "Stuff is hard as

rock and tastes strange."

"Bad?" Mildred asked in concern. She took some pellets from the bag and sniffed

them carefully. It smelled like ordinary cat food. How could she tell if it was

gone bad? The stuff always smelled awful.

"No, not bad, just strange," he said, swallowing with difficulty. "Hurt my teeth

to chew. But I guess it's okay."

"Then it's dinnertime," Mildred said, taking a chair at the table.

Since the physician had cooked, the rest served. Ryan passed out bowls and

spoons, while Krysty filled clean glasses with tepid water. Dean piled handfuls

of the hard cat food on saucers, and Doc ladled out the thin gray soup, trying

not to breath the fumes. Jak and J.B. kept watch with weapons in hand. They had

been caught off guard once during a meal, but never again. Then the companions

took their places and started to eat, none of them with very much enthusiasm.

Ryan ate steadily, ignoring the flavor and textures. Food was life. The one-eyed

man would eat anything that didn't eat him first.

Krysty dipped one of the rock hard pellets into the soup, and then nibbled that.

If anything, it tasted worse. "Sorry I lost my bearskin coat," the redhead said.

"It was old and dusty, but it would have tasted better than this dreck."

"Amen to that," Doc said listlessly, taking another spoonful of the soup and

forcing it down.

"Aw, shut up, you old coot," Mildred mumbled irritably, "and eat your boot."

Chapter Four

Night descended upon Shiloh Valley, or at least the clocks said it should be

night. But there was no lessening or change in the terrible shroud of ash

swirling around the ville like a black hurricane. A dozen sec men stood before

the gap in the wall waiting for more muties to arrive. Fifty more men shuffled

along between the brick buildings, patrolling for any other invaders. Three

huddled in the kiosk in front of the main gate, the steel railing locked firmly

in position. The slaves slept on the floor of the hut, since work was

impossible. Nothing moved but the windblown ash; there were no sounds but the

howling wind.

Then a single raindrop fell from the tortured sky and hit the ground with a

sizzling hiss, like water hitting a hot stove. The ground sank out of sight

where the droplet landed, a neat hole punched through the layer of dry ash.

A swaddled sec man walked closer to the spot and jerked back when he caught the

delicate aroma of sulfur.

"Acid rain!" he shouted through his mask. "The rain has come early!"

But nobody could hear the warning. Struggling against the wind, the sec man

reached the alarm bell and started wildly banging with all of his strength.

"Acid rain!" he screamed. "Rain!"

A few caught the muffled words and bolted for the nearest building as more drops

descended from the mottled sky. Soon the sizzling noise rose to a deafening

level, the ash compacting flat under the polluted deluge.

The guards at the wall cut themselves loose and headed for the bunker at the

base of the dish. A private dropped his knife and had to untie the rope holding

him secure. Stumbling after the others, he cried out as the rain hit his

clothing and seared right through. Nuking hell, it was like touching a red-hot

stove!

Going under the dish he was out of the rain, but he kept running. The wind could

shift and he'd be dead in minutes. Somewhere far away, the alarm continued to

ring as he crossed the encampment and finally made it to the bunker. Grabbing

the handle, he tried to twist the latch but it remained firmly in place. Locked?

"Open the door!" the sec man yelled, pounding on the iron plates with a fist,

"Open the fucking door!"

There was no response. Then a drop of rain hit him on the neck and he jumped

from the pain, swatting at the point as if it were a bee sting. His fingers

burned from the contact.

"Bastards!" he yelled, firing the Kalasnikov at the bunker. The rounds

ricocheted off the armored door with no effect.

Dropping the blaster, he headed around the dish to try for the slave quarters.

It was closer than the kiosk or the armory. Any building would do, but by now

the rain was coming down in sheets, flattening the ash into something that

resembled duty concrete.

A sudden gust swept acid over the sec man, and he shrieked as the cloth strips

rotted away to expose his uniform, then the bare skin underneath. Frantically,

he looked around for a canvas sheet, a tarpaulin, or anything he might use for

protection. But whatever might have been available was now sealed under the hard

covering of the solidified ash. The rain was pooling in gullies and trickling

along to form streams that flowed toward the quarry.

The warning bell stopped ringing, and the trooper knew he was out of luck and

time. Holding a hand to his forehead, he dashed into the rain, heading for the

slave quarters. Stinging fire pelted him on the back, and pieces of his blue

uniform flopped to his sides. He started to scream as the pain reached

intolerable levels, but he kept going, combat boots splashing in the deadly

water, the soles softening.

He crashed against the door to the slave quarters and grabbed the handle with

both hands. Safety was only a foot away. He had made it. He would live! Yanking

the door open, he saw a slave standing in his way. Grinning fiendishly, the

woman struck the sec man with a bucket, the blow knocking him backward into the

rain. He landed sprawling, the skin on his hands blistering instantly. As he

shouted a curse, the water trickled into his mouth, swelling his tongue and

burning the taste of sulfur down his throat. Recoiling, he tried to stand and

fell face first into a puddle.

Sizzling agony washed his face, and he stood, realizing in horror that he was

blind. Frantic, he ran for the dish once more and slammed into something large

and hard. One of the support columns? He had no idea. The agony was

overwhelming. He couldn't think. Run! He had to run! The sound of an engine

caught his attention and the bleeding man stumbled in that direction, whispering

for help, the flesh sagging off the bones of his exposed hand. There was a

splash. He tried to dodge something and rammed into hot metal. A Hummer! Those

were coated with plastic against the rain. He would be safe inside.

Grimacing in fear, the sec man inside the Hummer stayed motionless behind at

wheel, his hand tight on the door handle to make sure it didn't open. The dying

man beat on the glass with a bloody fist, the bones already showing. In a moment

of compassion, the driver raised a pistol and pointed the blaster at the melting

man, only to lower the weapon. The blast would shatter the window and let the

rain inside. There was nothing he could do to help the poor son of a bitch.

"Sorry!" he shouted, fumbling for words. "Sorry."

Sagging out of sight, the man's cries got weaker as his skin flowed off,

exposing muscles and beating organs. Soon only buttons, an ammo clip and some

plastic pieces of combat boots would remain to mark the demise of the man.

Mercilessly, the rain continued pounding down upon the Shiloh Valley, destroying

everything organic it touched.

RETURNING TO THE TOP FLOOR of the redoubt, the companions walked along the main

corridor that led to the barracks. The last time they were there the hallway had

been dark and lined with traps. Now it was well lit and spotlessly clean.

"Got to give old Silas that much," Ryan said grudgingly. "He was tidy."

"Anal retentive," Mildred commented.

Unsure of the meaning, Jak chose the dirtiest version he could think of and

snorted a laugh. "Good one."

Going into the barracks, the companions found the four huge rooms were exactly

the same as remembered—lined with bunks for hundreds of troops, small adjacent

laundry rooms, and a line of lavs with rows of showers and stalls.

Choosing the most clean room, they checked once more for traps, then barricaded

the door with a pile of bunks. Dean and Doc stood guard, while the others hit

the showers and scrubbed themselves clean of days of sweat mixed with the bitter

ash from outside. Then the others did the laundry while the albino youth and the

boy showered in private stalls. The washing machines squealed unhappily, then

sluggishly began to chug away. The bottles of bleach were bone dry, and adding

water produced no results. But there were U.S. Army-issue plastic boxes full of

individual packets of detergent and softener. In a few hours, the companions

were scrubbed and wearing clean clothes.

Fed and clean for the first time in days, the companions chose the rooms

reserved for officers, bolted the doors and fell soundly asleep. Nobody even

dreamed.

Chapter Five

By the light of the silvery moon, the old man stared at the ruin of his ville,

the melted stone towers, the burned huts, bits of cooked corpses sticking out of

the flat acres of stone like insects caught in cool wax.

Reaching into a vest pocket, Baron John Henderson removed an antique silver

snuff box, opened it and sniffed a pinch of the powder up each nostril. His body

spasmed as the mixture of tobacco and jolt rushed to his brain, and suddenly he

felt young and vibrant. As the drug took hold of his consciousness, colors

changed hues, shimmering and melting into one another. The sensation of the

experience made him feel giddy.

The baron of what remained of Casanova ville was wearing a predark business

suit. He usually wore velvet slippers, but they had been replaced with stout

leather boots. Tassels hung from an ornamental saber at his hip, but the fringe

was stained and frayed. The big blaster in his shoulder holster was spotty, the

gold filigree from the weapon forcibly pried off with a knife. Only the holster

itself was in good condition, covered with fancy rainbow embroidery. The suit

was clean, but not pressed, the buttons dim and scratched. Scabs from some

disease dotted his unshaved face, his fingernails were caked with filth, his

hair greasy and he smelled of urine. The reek was covered, somewhat, by the

cloying perfume liberally applied to his old body.

But there was a fire in his eyes not fueled by the drugs, and his face radiated

a strength of character that few men didn't fear.

Controlling his breathing, Baron Henderson knelt and placed a hand on the gray

stone. It was hot, but not sizzling. Even after a week it was still hot. His

grandson wouldn't allow the baron to visit the destroyed ville until he was sure

it was safe. Safe. The very word tasted like shit in his mouth. What the hell

was safe in Deathlands?

A well of fury rose within the baron, his grotesque face contorting in feral

rage. Quickly, his grandson stepped forward and yanked his hand off the cooling

lava.

"Dammit, I told you what it looked like," William Henderson said, inspecting the

palm. It was red, but not burned in any way. "Just had to see for yourself, eh?"

The young Henderson was wearing camou-colored military fatigues, combat boots,

with matching blasters on each hip. He was dressed like a soldier for combat,

and only resembled his grandfather in the set of his shoulders and the madness

in his face. The Hendersons had been breeding with their own bloodline for

generations to try to purify the family of any weakness. Many were born without

arms or legs, some unable to breath on their own. These were simply aced and

burned, their very births denied. William had been the first whole Henderson in

three decades, and while his body was perfect, even his grandfather feared the

cold temper of the young Adonis. Shaking off the youth's hand, the baron said

nothing as he looked over the destruction of Casanova ville. Almost four hundred

people had died in the attack, nearly half of his sec men and damn near every

horse they owned. Plus, the wags and juice. The loss of slaves and blasters

alone was heartbreaking.

"Fifteen minutes," the baron said aloud.

Crossing his arms, William nodded. "One of the guards was doing a slave in the

bushes. He had just started when he heard the screaming and felt a wave of heat.

Unfortunately, he didn't look up until he finished, and saw the castle slag to

the ground like melting ice."

"You killed him, of course," the baron said, rising stiffly. Even the jolt

couldn't remove all his pain these days. "The damn fool should have turned at

once. Always time to hump a slut, but this could have been a chem fire,

lightning strike, something controllable. There might have been something he

could have done to save my ville!"

Narrowing his eyes to slits, William stared at the old reprobate, limbs

quivering from the jolt, wine and semen staining his clothes as flies buzzed

everywhere. Blood of his blood, the young man was still repulsed by the stinking

whitehair.

"We strapped a knife to the slut and tied him down to a tree stump," William

said. "Offered her freedom if she chilled him."

The baron stood taller, a faint smile playing on his chapped lips. "Original,"

he said with a chuckle. "Most amusing. The man died fast? No, wait. She took her

time, savoring the kill. How long before he stopped begging for you to release

him and switched to begging for you to chill him?"

"Two hours. The girl had style."

"Excellent. Bring her to my tent tonight."

"I can't. She's gone," his grandson replied. "I gave my word and set her free

afterward."

Turning his back on the desolation of the congealing stoneworks, the baron shook

his head sadly. "Honor and dignity, gods of the atom, what crap! I never should

have let your idiot mother raise you."

"Really?" William said low and dangerous. "Yet it is only my word to my mother

that keeps me here protecting you, you filthy disgusting old freak." He drew a

blaster and pressed the barrel to the man's temple. "Black dust, I want to chill

you more than I can say!"

The old baron grinned, displaying his assortment of stained and rotting teeth.

"Then do it," he prodded. "Or shut the fuck up and get out of my way. You're as

weak as your father was."

Snarling wordlessly, William cocked back the hammer and tightened his grip on

the trigger, conflicting emotions storming across his handsome features. Then

with a sigh, his broad shoulders slumped and he bolstered the blaster. "I gave

my word," William said softly, not really speaking to his grandfather. "And a

soldier keeps his word, especially to himself."

"To himself most of all," the baron agreed, and the left pocket of his suit

violently exploded, the heavy slug from the concealed blaster taking his

grandson in the chest.

Stumbling backward, the young man hit a tree, a look of shock contorting his

flawless face.

"Please," he wheezed, holding up a hand for protection while pressing a palm

against the wet hole in his chest. Icy fire filled his limbs and a great wave of

weakness stole his strength. It was quickly becoming impossible to breath.

"Grandfather…!"

Drawing the .22 revolver from his smoking pocket, the baron aimed and shot the

dying man again in the knees, the groin, then the gut, trying to make the pain

as great as possible. Burbling blood filling his mouth, William fell to the

ground, a fumbling hand clawing at his own weapon. The baron kicked the hand

away and placed the hot barrel to the temple of his dying grandson.

"You didn't remember," he sang softly. "But I told you ten years ago that if you

ever pointed a blaster at me again, you had damn well better use it, or I would

use mine. Forgot, didn't you? That's a bad habit for a would-be baron."

William spit blood at the old man, hitting his cheek. The baron laughed and

fired into the man's temple, exploding his head like a crushed egg.

"Forgetting a threat is almost as bad as forgiving an enemy. We rule by

strength, not honor." The baron chortled through his nose, wiping the rivulet of

snot on an encrusted sleeve. He repeated the phrase in a singsong voice, dancing

a little step. "Forget, forgive, forget, forgive! Both of those won't let you

live!"

Suddenly, sec men in liveried uniforms rushed from the bushes with a wide

assortment of blasters in their hands. The officers held M-16s, the sergeants

bolt-action longblasters and the privates all carried shotguns. There were no

homemades. This was the baron's private guard, and they used only the very best

his ville owned.

"Are you okay, my lord?" a burly sergeant asked, walking closer.

"Fine, fine," the baron said, bolstering his weapon, then quickly drawing the

piece to reload. Spent shells were suicide in Deathlands. John Henderson knew he

was slightly insane, but he refused to become stupid. "My grandson and I had a

discussion over whom should be the baron," the old man lied smoothly, sliding

fresh shells into the revolver's cylinder. "I was asked to go into the bushes

and retire myself. I told the boy no, and he accepted it with grace, dignity and

honor."

Closing the blaster, Henderson tucked it inside his undamaged pocket. "You!" he

snapped to a sec man. "Get me another suit!"

"Yes, my lord." The private saluted and dashed away.

The rest of the troops stood where they were, waiting for orders from their

baron. He reeked like a used lav, and often chilled without reason, but aside

from this one time, he had never lost a battle. The sec men had discussed the

matter in detail days earlier, and rather than become coldhearts and attack

farms, they would stay with the madman and see if he could get them another

ville.

Henderson saw the decision in their face and approved. "By the way," he said,

"did my grandson actually set loose the whore the guard was humping in the woods

while my ville was being destroyed? He didn't really do that, did he?"

Averting their faces, the officers and privates mumbled assorted things under

their breaths. Only a huge sec man spoke out loud and clear. "Why, yes, sir, he

did. Never could figure out why, but it's not my place to question a superior."

"Sergeant, aren't you?" the baron asked, squinting up at the giant.

"Sergeant Thomas Smith, my lord."

"So tell me, Thomas, exactly how many other officers survived the attack? I only

had twenty men with me when I went hunting that day."

Smith didn't correct the baron about being an officer. "Another five officers,

my lord, and fifty more men were out fishing, or on patrol in the woods."

"Seventy troops, half dozen officers," Henderson muttered. "My grandson was my

sec chief, and he turned traitor. I need a new commander of the troops. Okay,

big boy, now you're it."

"Sir?" the sergeant asked, stunned.

The baron stared hard. "Don't make me think this is a mistake," he warned,

resting a hand on his blaster. "Can't run a war by myself. Plus, I need an heir

to carry on the Henderson name. My grandson committed suicide by challenging me.

I'm offering the post to you, heir to the throne of… well, whatever ville we

take over next. Yes or no."

"Yes," the sergeant said quickly, bending to a knee, "Father."

The baron chuckled softly. Even down on one knee, the bastard slab of beef was

still taller than him. The freak had to be seven feet high! In a battle

everybody would ignore the old man and concentrate on the giant. He was perfect

cannon fodder. Yet there were more than muscles stuffed between his lumpy ears.

He had answered without question or pause.

With an elaborate flourish, Baron Henderson reached out and touched the man on

each shoulder with his warm blaster. "Then raise General Thomas Henderson, heir

to the Iron Throne. What is your first command?"

"You," the general snapped, pointing at a private.

"Move my things to the dead man's tent, get me his wag and bring me his

handcannon and belt holster."

"Sure thing, Sarge!" the man said, grinning.

Thomas backhanded the guard, sending him sprawling. "I'm your commander," he

stated softly, almost too low for the others to hear. They had to lean in and

strain to catch the words. "Obey me, or die. Your choice."

"Yes, sir," the cringing man mumbled from the dirt.

Raggedly the troops raised a cheer for the their new commander, the officers

saluting the preening goliath.

Delighted, Baron Henderson smiled craftily at the young fool. That whispering

trick was good; he'd have to use that himself. Without his grandson to direct a

battle, he would have been forced to lead any charge himself. Now this huge

idiot would do that for him.

"What are your orders, Father?" Thomas asked, looking very serious.

"We have gathered everything salvageable from the wreckage," Henderson said,

taking another pinch of snuff with a shaking hand. He spilled most on his shirt

but enough got up his nose to stop the trembling. "Now we go west, raid a few

hamlets along the way for food, horses, anything else that we lack. Then, when

we are ready, we strike at the enemy who did this to us, Nathan Cawdor of Front

Royal!"

"Cawdor?" a lieutenant asked, puzzled. "But, ah, pardon me, my lord, but how you

know he did it?"

"There were only three villes of any size in Virginia," he said, sneering,

"BullRun, Casanova and Front Royal. Two have been destroyed. That leaves Cawdor

and his brown shirts."

The troops murmured in agreement. They were more looking forward to raiding

helpless farms than striking at the armed citadel of Front Royal. Muties or

coldhearts, few whoever attacked the ville escaped alive. Maybe this melting

thing was the reason why.

"And how, sir, we can stop a wep that fries stone?" a lieutenant dared to ask.

"Never question your baron!" Thomas snapped.

Then he turned to ask, "Do you wish to tell us your plan, Father?"

The private returned with a fresh suit, and the baron started to change. "Not at

the moment," Henderson said, removing his jacket. His bare arms were as skinny

as sticks, discolored with splotches and bruises. "But it cannot fail. Tomorrow,

Front Royal falls and we shall rule the entire state from the Lantic to the

Shens!"

Led by their new commander, the sec men wildly cheered, and Henderson tried not

to laugh at them. They would all die in the attack on Front Royal. That was the

key past the stone walls. But they would gain entrance, and soon afterward, the

weapon that destroyed Casanova ville would be his to unleash upon the rest of

Deathlands. Not to rule the groveling masses, but purely for the sake of

retribution for being born into this horrid world. When he died, so would the

rest of humankind. And the sooner the better.

Chapter Six

Dawn was just starting to break, when a blue shirt hesitantly opened the door of

the armory and glanced outside. "Rain's over," he announced.

Baron Sheffield and the rest of the bodyguards exited the brick building,

careful of stepping into any of the steaming yellow puddles. The landscape was

like nothing any of them had ever seen. Everything was coated with a hardened

layer of condensed ash. The ground was covered with gentle ripples, as if

somebody had tossed a stone into a lake of lava, which instantly cooled back

into rock.

"See who is still alive," Sheffield ordered, noting the piece of somebody

partially buried in the weird stone carpeting. "Help anybody trapped, then get

the slaves busy chipping this crap off the wags and the gate. Don't touch the

gap in the wall. This can only help strengthen our defenses there."

"Sir!" The man saluted and dashed away.

"Nothing will grow in this valley again," Collette stated as a fact, hooking

thumbs into her gun belt. "We have to move the base."

"But, sir, the dish…" a sec man began, pointing above them.

"Can be replaced," the baron snapped, studying the towering structure. "There's

nothing special about it. We simply need a big dish antenna to communicate with

the Kite. Moving the comps is easy. They hardly weigh a thing. Couple of hundred

pounds."

"Any ideas where, sir?" a lieutenant asked.

The baron started to speak when he noticed an old slave shuffling past the

electric fence. "We'll discuss this inside," he muttered softly.

Returning to the throne room, the baron directed his staff around a table piled

with maps, some plastic, a few hand drawn on deerskin, one or two made of yellow

paper. Shifting the map of Tennessee to the bottom of the pile, he pulled

another showing the East Coast of predark America. Corrections had been made to

the coastline and land with a brown ink of some kind. "These are the other

locations of big antennas," he stated, watching them lean in close to see.

"Silas could have used any, but chose this one because it was the first dish he

found." And it was near a redoubt, but that was none of their business.

Suddenly alert, Collette watched the baron's face, sensing he was withholding

important information, and wondered what it was that she had just missed.

"Of all the possibilities," Sheffield said, stabbing the map with a finger,

"these thirteen are our best bets."

"Ah, my lord?" a sergeant interrupted him.

"What?"

"Sir, I've been hunting over here in Georgia, and there's nothing there but

desert and some cannie mu-ties. Little green bastards got a taste for horse and

damn near got me. Ain't no dish, though, sir."

"You dare to correct your baron?" Collette snapped, reaching for her blaster.

Magnanimously, Sheffield raised a hand, stopping her. "Thank you, Sergeant.

Fresh information is always useful. Any other corrections?"

The staff officers studied the maps and finally decided that one mistake was the

only flaw.

"Good, that saves us a lot of time," Sheffield said, blacking out the site of

Georgia Tech College. "Time we do not have to spare, or waste. I'll send two

squads to recce the remaining six. As soon as they find one, they come back and

I'll decide whether we go, or wait for a better location."

Conversation stopped as a slave girl entered the room with a silver tray of

sandwiches. Sheffield flipped over the top map, and the blue shirts waited in

silence until she had returned to the kitchen.

"Lieutenant Brandon?"

"Sir!"

"Take ten men with you. It'll be crowded in the wag, but you're sure to lose

some along the way."

Coldhearted bastard. "Yes, my lord."

"Sergeant Campbell, do the same. Load the wags with all the fuel and ammo

needed, then take what food can be stored inside. You can always raid villes for

more."

"We're giving them the wags?" Collette admonished.

"Yes,I am assigning them wags," Sheffield corrected harshly. "My troops cut the

time by half this way. It's a gamble, but one that I am willing to take."

"As you say," Collette demurred. The emphasis on certain of his words hadn't

been missed by anybody in the room.

Rolling up the plastic map, Sheffield looked hard at the sec men. "You'll each

receive a copy of the map just before you leave. Concentrate on your mission and

don't worry about the other wag not coming back. I can monitor every word of

conversation spoke inside them with the Kite," he lied. "Anybody goes rogue, and

I'll melt the wag with the men inside."

"So we can ask you for help, sir?" Campbell asked.

Clever bastard. Sheffield frowned. "Doesn't work like that. I can hear you, but

you can't hear me. Amplifiers, you know, system feedback." The baron had no idea

what the words meant. These were simply things he had heard Silas say once while

trying to fix a cassette player.

The men nodded in understanding, nudging the sergeant for asking a stupe

question. Only Collette knew it was all a lie, but to the sec men, tech stuff

was always accepted without question. She knew that most of the blues didn't

know how an engine worked, or even their own blasters. Electronics was magic as

far as they were concerned.

"Avoid the roads and use rivers whenever possible, and you'll make better

speed," Collette said. "Also, less chance of hitting a roadblock and having to

waste ammo on mercies or coldhearts."

"Riverbeds, you mean," Brandon said, smiling at her mistake. "Not in the actual

water."

"No, she's correct. Use the rivers," Sheffield ordered. "The wags are

amphibious."

Awkwardly, the men shifted their stances, trying to pretend they understood the

words.

"The wags are waterproof. They can float," he added angrily. "Chill anybody who

gets in the way. Put the fear of the blues into the bastards. Pave the way for

our return."

"The first team will be designated Alpha. They'll check the sites in northern

Tennessee, eastern Kentucky and Pennsylvania."

"Beta team will bypass Georgia, and recce the middle of North Carolina, south

Virginia, then upstate."

"Lot of ground to cover," Campbell stated, walking his fingers across the paper

and trying to guess the distances involved.

"Yes, but there is a lot at stake," Sheffield said. Then he crossed his arms and

smiled. Now was the time to give them the carrot. "The first team that finds

what we need will be assigned as permanent guards for the new gaudy house. No

wall patrols for the rest of their lives."

The grim faces in the throne room brightened at the prospect, smiles abounding.

It was a rich reward.

"When can we go, sir?" Brandon asked, hitching up his gun belt. "The sooner we

leave, the sooner we come back with a new ville for you."

Caught unprepared, Campbell shot the officer a hate-filled glance, but said

nothing. Damn ass kisser. The baron grunted. "Good man. You'll leave within the

hour, and the slaves will start packing today. Once we have a goal, we leave

immediately. This valley is dead."

"About those two sites in Virginia," Collette started, rubbing her nose

thoughtfully.

Spotted that, did she? Sheffield cleared his throat. "The first is near Green

Cove ville, good walls and that's about all we know. The other is just east of

Front Royal. I'm very glad that Silas didn't melt the place, because it may just

become our new base."

"Front Royal?" the lieutenant gasped. "But sir, they have wags, troops, an awful

lot of our own AK-47 blasters, grens, and Nathan Cawdor is known to be a

chilling machine."

"We can take them," Campbell growled. "They're just a bunch of farmers and

whitehairs. Easy chilling."

Scowling, Collette shook her head. "Front Royal is an armored citadel that no

amount of troops can take. Only a fool or a madman would even try."

"So what are we going to do if that's our best site?" the sergeant asked,

worried. "Melt them a little with the Kite as a warning?"

"That would be a waste," Sheffield said, annoyed. "I can do much worse to Cawdor

and his brown shirts. Much worse."

"RISE AND SHINE, lover," Ryan said, walking naked from the steaming shower. He

grabbed a towel from a pile and started to dry himself.

"I'll rise," Krysty grumbled from underneath the blankets, "but that's all. What

time is it?"

"After noon," he replied, toweling his hair.

She cracked a smile. "Just getting up yourself, I see."

"Second shower today for me," Ryan stated, tossing aside the damp towel and

pulling on some clothes. "We spent most of the morning cleaning that damn ash

out of the garage so we could work on the crossbows. Blasted shit gets up your

nose and down your boots like its alive."

"And you didn't wake me?" Krysty asked. "I looked that bad, eh?"

With a shrug, Ryan started to button a shirt. "You were hit the worst by the

Kite and needed some extra sack time. That's all. Now go wash. Lunch is ready."

Krysty sat upright on the bed, the blankets tumbling to her waist. "More soup?"

she asked around a yawn, stretching her arms wide. "We should dip the arrowheads

in it."

As always, Ryan felt himself responding to her beauty, but shoved those thoughts

aside. There was too much work to do. "Too dangerous. It might rot the metal,"

he said, buckling on his gun belt. "Get moving."

Stumbling from the warm bed, the nude woman scratched herself as she padded

across the barracks floor and into the shower. Minutes later, she emerged from

the clouds of soapy steam scrubbed pink, her hair cascading down her back.

Ryan waited as she donned clothing, then they headed for the cafeteria. Lunch

was the same as dinner. The companions forced down more of the hot gray soup and

ate another generous helping of the cat food. It left a bad taste in their

mouths that wouldn't go away even with brushing or gargling. But it eased the

pain in their bellies and put strength back in their hands. Good enough.

Afterward, the companions spent the rest of the day finishing the crude weapons.

Doc trimmed the dining-room knives to notched arrowheads, Dean lathed broom and

mop handles into wooden shafts, Mildred used her delicate touch with a blade to

split pillow feathers into fletching, Krysty used glue and thread to attach

them, and Jak fixed the arrowheads into place with electrical tape salvaged from

outlets and light switches. The arrows were ugly, but balanced. That was all

they could ask for.

Ryan and J.B. did the heavy work. The big lathe cut table legs into stocks, and

the long, flat metal strips from the beds became the cross-member pieces. The

string for the weapons was the difficult part. Twine wouldn't take the tension.

J.B. tried, and the hundred-year-old rope snapped every time. Mildred suggested

hunting for a guitar, or a piano. The metallic strings of the musical

instruments would be prefect for the crossbows, but none was available.

Ryan solved the problem by attacking the elevator with a hacksaw and removing

the support cable. The main cable was a bundle of thin wires twisted together to

form smaller cables, which were braided to make a thick one. It was incredibly

strong, and as difficult as hell to get loose. The cable snapped free halfway

through the operation and shot into the upper levels like a whip. The companions

ran out of the shaft until the wildly lashing cable settled down and they could

claim the smaller ones. The first tries were unsuccessful, then Doc suggested

braiding a couple of the thin wires into a slim cable, like the guitar string

that Mildred had suggested. It took the rest of the day, but seemed to work

fine. When J.B. shot off some trial arrows, the bolts slammed completely through

a wood desk and became embedded in the cinder-block wall behind.

"That'll do," Ryan said, hefting the crossbow. The weapon was slow to load and

heavy to use, but the crossbow would silently chill from a distance, and that

was all they wanted for it. They knew it was a gamble to check the tunnel before

trying a mat-trans jump first. But the thought of going through the machine in

their weakened condition was an even bigger risk. Even when well rested and fed,

it took a lot out of them. The storm outside was still raging, so of their two

choices, it was the least dangerous.

Mildred and Jak made some quivers from pieces of carpeting cut off the floor of

the commander's office. Wire stitched them closed and their belts made effective

straps.

"Two crossbows, ten arrows. That's all we got," J.B. announced, placing the

weapons on a table. "Too much of the stuff cracked when we tried machining it

into shape. There are lots more shafts and feathers, but no more arrowheads."

"Sharpen shafts," Jak suggested, drawing a knife. "Better than nothing." J.B.

slid over a quiver, and the teenager got to work.

"Many hands make for light work," Doc said, drawing his own blade and starting

to whittle on the next batch of shafts.

Rising from her chair, Krysty got a bowl from the cabinet, filled it with water

and placed it between the men. "Be sure to char the points when you're done,"

she instructed, putting a butane lighter beside the bowl. "That'll make the wood

harder, less likely to splinter when it hits."

Whittling away, the men nodded as shavings curled under the blades and fell

quietly to the floor.

"This'll give us twenty-two arrows," Ryan said, drawing his blaster and checking

the clip. "Anybody ever used one before?"

"Sure," Jak said, flicking a lighter into life. Holding the sharp tip of an

arrow over the flame, he let the wood get black, then removed it quickly and

doused it in the water. The difference between making it hard and setting it on

fire was a matter of split seconds. A crossbow was how he had gotten his first

blaster. It caught a mercie in the throat, and he finished him off with a rock.

Jak got the dead man's blaster.

"How about you, Doc?" J.B. asked, sliding on an old pair of fingerless gloves.

He had taken them off to do the lathing and machine work, but they were going

into the unknown and he wanted to be ready for a fight. Anything could be beyond

that door, any damn thing at all.

Pausing in his carving, Doc raised an eyebrow. "Swords and handguns were the

chosen weapons of my day. Arrows were considered weapons of the red Indians of

the plains."

"Mighty deadly in their hands," Ryan said, remembering a terrible day in the

western plains when the companions almost hadn't survived. "Trader used to say

that some triple-stupe bastard with a blaster would always get aced easy by a

smart man armed with just a club."

"The Art of War, by Sun Tzu." Doc chuckled in amusement, putting another

finished arrow aside. "Although a slightly garbled translation."

Ryan shrugged. "Just common sense."

"Well, I took an archery class in high school," Mildred said hesitantly. "But

that was a long time ago."

"Good enough," Ryan said, sliding the heavy weapon across the table. "You two

are the archers, then."

Lifting the slab of wood and steel, Mildred inspected the crude weapon. The

stock was cut from a desk, the cross member attached with heavy bolts stolen

from some piece of machinery. The trigger was a simple lever underneath that was

to be pressed upward against the stock to release the catch. Grabbing the

string, she pulled it backward until it locked on the catch with a solid click.

Sliding an arrow between the notches, she shook the crossbow until the shaft

fell out. Then Mildred did it all over again, until she could draw and load with

a minimum of fuss. Nobody asked what she was doing.

"Should we have dinner, then hit the tunnel?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Tunnel first," his father decided. The soup was keeping them alive, but as

their hunger lessened so did its flavor. "We don't know what's on the other side

of that door. Could be a nice straight tunnel or a freaking maze. We need some

way to make a map so we don't get lost, and there should be some way for us to

mark the branches, just in case."

Krysty stood. "I saw some pencils and paper in the chief cook's office. Those

should do." She crossed the room and disappeared into a small office.

"Any spray paint?" Mildred asked, slinging the crossbow over a shoulder. It was

clumsy, but she could manage the weight.

Removing his hat, J.B. wiped off the sweatband with a cloth. "No paint," he

said, replacing the hat. "I found a case of aerosol cans, but they were all

dried out or had burst apart."

"Shit, worst redoubt we've ever been in," Mildred growled, as Doc handed her a

full quiver. The physician slung it over her other shoulder, but the draw was

awkward, so she shifted positions until satisfied.

"Blackboard in kitchen," Jak said, gesturing with his crossbow. "Chalk mebbe?"

"I checked, and it's gone," Krysty said, returning with the writing materials.

"And the markers are completely dried out."

"We'll use spent brass to mark our way," Ryan stated roughly, placing the empty

Steyr on the table. "Everybody bring along a handful. Leave everything else

behind. With luck, we'll be carrying things back here and don't want to be

overloaded."

"Dad, who stays behind?" Dean asked out of the blue.

Frowning, Ryan realized the boy was right. The cellar door bolted from inside

the redoubt. While they were in the tunnel, something might somehow creep into

the base. They needed a rearguard.

"Want the job?" he asked.

"No prob," Dean stated resolutely.

"Good man," Ryan said, patting the boy on the shoulder. "Nobody else I'd rather

have guarding my back than another Cawdor."

The young boy preened under the praise, then his usual serious expression

returned. Dean was a seasoned fighter, and most barons were guarded by sec men

with far less fighting experience.

"Here," J.B. said, passing him a couple of Molotovs. "We'll leave you these.

Watch for splatter. These babies are messy. Grease and alcohol aren't exactly a

prime mix."

"Check," Dean replied, rummaging in a pocket. He found a butane lighter and

flicked it, adjusting the flame to its highest setting. In his opinion, these

were the only wonders of the predark world worth having. Bullets got used and

were gone, candles melted, light bulbs burned out, but the cig lighters survived

the hundred years of radiation intact, and each was good for over a thousand

times. Once, he had cooked a small rabbit over just the flame of a butane

lighter. It made the meat taste odd, but he lived for another day.

Taking a torch, Ryan stuffed a plastic bag full of extra greasy rags into a

pocket. "Ready?"

"Damn near," J.B. replied, standing. The carpetbag over his shoulder clicked

from the Molotovs, and he opened the flap to stuff in some more cloth rags to

keep down the noise.

"Half a league, half a league onward," Doc rumbled in an odd singsong manner

that indicated he was quoting somebody.

"Don't finish that," Mildred warned, cutting him off. Kipling was a good poet,

but a damn poor military adviser.

Going to the bottom level of the redoubt, the companions gathered before the

armored door and assumed combat positions. Going to the stairs, Dean readied a

Molotov in case the others needed cover.

"No more than two torches at a time," Ryan warned, setting fire to his with a

butane lighter. Oddly, the flame was weak and he realized the cig lighter was

almost exhausted. Not good. "I'm on point. J.B. cover the rear."

"Gotcha," the Armorer said, igniting his own rag torch. Dense black smoke rose

from the crackling flames, the smoke crawling along the ceiling like a living

thing. Dean shifted position on the stairs to get out of its way.

"Remember the codes?" Ryan asked the boy. Dean nodded. "When I ask who's there,

only open the door if you give your real name. Albert, Alvin, anything like that

means it's an ambush and don't open the door no matter what else you say. Any

name like Roger, or Ralph, means run. I take the mat-trans and go."

"Immediately."

"Yes, Dad. Immediately."

The Deathlands warrior grimaced. There were more codes they had created over the

years, but these were the only ones appropriate for this situation. Open the

door, or not open the door. That's all there really was.

"Okay, open it," Ryan said, drawing his blaster and using a thumb to snick off

the safety.

Doc threw the bolt, and the others lent a hand to heave the massive door aside.

The cellar light illuminated a section of tunnel that stretched into the

blackness. The floor was worn smooth, and arches made of the same black metal as

the exterior of the redoubt supported the ceiling at regular spacings. Empty

hoops along the wall showed where power cables should have been attached to

lights.

"Damn fine workmanship," Mildred noted, studying the details of the braces.

"Wonder what it was for?"

"Find out soon enough," Ryan said, extending his torch and entering the

darkness.

The companions followed in close order. Pausing at the door, J.B. took a breath

and walked through. Many years earlier he had been trapped for days underground

with a rotting corpse. Tunnels and caves weren't his favorite places.

The torches crackled noisily, throwing dancing light along the rocky passageway

for several yards. Then a shadow on the floor didn't dissolve under the light,

but instead turned and charged with claws snapping.

"Mutie!" Ryan warned, lowering his torch.

Blinded by the light, the creature hissed loudly, but kept on coming. Shooting

from the hip, Ryan blew off a leg, yellow blood squirting from the ghastly

wound. The mutie howled in pain.

Mildred launched an arrow, the wooden shaft shattering into splinters on the

rough shell. She cursed, and the crab was among them. Jak dodged a claw as

Krysty fired, the bullet scoring a shallow line along the creature's shell. Ryan

thrust a torch into its face, burning off an eye stalk. The mutie squealed, and

Doc stabbed with his sword, skewering the thing in the open mouth. Squalling

madly, the giant crab scuttled off into the darkness at remarkable speed,

leaving a trail of blood behind.

"Tough little bastard," Mildred noted, notching a steel-tipped arrow.

"Can't let go," Jak stated, cradling his weapon. The teenager was leaning

forward, as if already in pursuit.

Ryan snorted. "All that food? No way." Kneeling he critically studied the broken

leg. The shell was abnormally thick. Arrows would never penetrate. They'd have

to use the blasters. "Okay, one yard spread, double-time. Watch for spoor. Stay

close and quiet. Our voices will carry for miles down here."

"Good," J.B. said, working the bolt on his Uzi. "Then so will anybody else's."

With Ryan in the lead, the companions took off after the mutie down the long

subterranean passageway.

"Good luck," Dean said from the open doorway, blaster in hand. "Good hunting!"

Slowly, the massive portal swung closed, the sweep of light narrowing to a slim

vertical line, and then with a muffled clang it was gone. The bolts driving home

sounded unnaturally loud.

Chapter Seven

Rolling over the barren landscape, the sputtering motorcycle braked to a halt in

the front of the low hill. The swell was covered with the ash-colored concrete

like everything else, and only its height made it visible above the sterile

plain. Driving around the hill, the blue shirt stopped again as he found a small

recess, a short alley that led to an imposing door made of black metal.

"This is it," the rider said, turning off the struggling machine and lowering

the kickstand. Climbing off the bike, the sec man stepped out of the safety cage

surrounding the vehicle and began to unlock the chains holding his passenger

motionless against the gridwork of iron bars. Softly, the big engine began to

tick as it started to cool.

Pulling the length of chain free from the man and bars, the blue shirt stepped

away from the bike and drew a blaster.

"Okay, get busy," the sec man ordered, waving the weapon.

"Yes, master," the old slave said, rubbing his chaffed wrists and awkwardly

climbing from inside the safety cage, heavy chains dangling between his scrawny

ankles. Shuffling to the strange armored door, the whitehair couldn't help but

gasp. The material was a black metal unlike anything he had ever seen. It was

marred by fire, but still solid and strong. What blacksmith could have possibly

made this colossal door?

"What are you waiting for?" the blue shirt demanded, squatting on the smooth

rocky soil.

"Yes, master," the man repeated, rummaging around in his loincloth for the sheaf

of papers the baron himself had pressed into his hands—along with a promise of

freedom if he was successful. That he didn't believe, but this was better duty

than mucking out the sewers or cutting stone in the quarry. Squinting at the

print, he tapped in the first line of letters and numbers. Nothing happened.

"Keep going," the blue shirt snapped, lighting a cig and drawing the smoke deep

into his lungs. "You only got this job 'cause you can read. Don't stop till I

tell you to, or you'll taste the lash." He patted the knotted leather coil of

the bullwhip hanging at his side. "Get me?"

"Of course, sir," the oldster whimpered, continuing to tap figures and letters

into the little pad. Hopefully, he would soon find the key to the black door,

the sec man would chill him then and his pain would end.

Then the realization hit him, success meant death! Redoubling his efforts, the

old man started to type in the combinations faster and faster, praying and

hoping the door would open soon.

THE TUNNEL STRETCHED for quite a way.

"Few droppings," Jak noted as they proceed. "No bats."

Keeping his torch high to avoid splatter from the grease, Ryan agreed. He had

been in caves where the guano had been feet deep. Once he saw man drown in the

stuff before they could throw a rope and drag the poor bastard to safety. But

this tunnel was clean of bat shit, which meant there was no easy access to the

outside. Then again, they were fifteen stories underground. Did bats fly that

far to nest? He didn't know.

At an intersection, the companions paused to check the side tunnels. Both ended

after only a few hundred yards. Whatever the military had been building down

here was going to be extensive.

"Mebbe they were making a permanent vault for the art," Krysty asked softly.

"Makes sense," Mildred replied. "If you can say anything the government did in

those days made sense."

"Don't like this," J.B. said, adjusting his glasses. "No equipment anywhere."

Ryan agreed. "Means that folks have been down here. Crabs got no use for hammers

and dynamite."

After a while, the torches began to dim, so the companions took a rest and

dropped the burning rags on the torches to the ground, then wrapped each handle

with fresh strips and oil and lit them anew. When the job had been completed,

they moved onward, leaving the smoldering rags behind to help mark the way home.

The tunnel before them seemed to stretch forever.

An hour passed slowly, then Ryan gave a soft whistle and the companions froze,

pulling their weapons ready. There was a shape in the shadows ahead of them

twice as large as the crab.

He waited a few moments, listening for any noises, but only the crackling

torches could be heard. Holding out his palm to the others, he closed it into a

fist, then raised one finger. They nodded in understanding. Alone, Ryan

proceeded carefully along the wall of the tunnel and found an ordinary concrete

barricade blocking the end of the passageway. The yellow-and-black-striped slab

barred further progress. Holding the torch at an angle, Ryan extended it over

the waist-high barrier. In the reddish light, he saw a ledge beyond, a slope of

raw unfinished rock leading into pitch darkness. It was an easy walk; no problem

there. However, nothing could be seen above or below. The tunnel might have well

stopped at the end of the world.

A movement from behind made him spin, and Krysty came from the shadows.

"Kill that torch," she whispered urgently. "They'll see you."

Dropping the torch behind the concrete barrier, Ryan stomped out the flames.

Darkness filled the tunnel.

"Can you hear them?" she asked, only a vague form beside him. "Talking,

laughing, a couple having sex, a child crying. It's a whole ville down there."

"Blues?" Ryan asked, straining to see. As his eyes slowly got accustomed to the

lack of light, he began to make out shapes and forms below. A soft ethereal glow

permeated the gloom.

On the bottom of the cavern, columns of rock rose in an irregular pattern like a

wild forest of stone trees. Amid the vertical outcroppings were rows of huts and

corrals full of something that moved. A low wall surrounded the underground

ville.

Having seen enough, Ryan took her arm and they returned to the others.

"Kill that torch!" he whispered. "We found a ville."

Promptly, Doc dropped the torch and stamped out the flames.

Softly, Krysty added, "Can't tell whether it's norms or muties down there, but

they have houses, a wall and some kind of animal penned for food."

"How see without torch?" Jak asked curiously. "Campfires?"

"There's a soft glow coming from the walls of the cavern," Ryan replied. He

paused for a moment, listening for any sounds, then continued. "It's not much,

just barely enough to see."

"Sounds worth a recce," J.B. said, hovering over the weakening light of the

extinguished torch. "We can jack some of their cattle at the very least."

As the last few embers of the torch died, the darkness in the tunnel approached

Stygian levels. "Krysty, you better stay here with the torches in case we need a

guide home," Ryan decided. "And prepare some of the wooden arrows with oil and

rags to use as an emergency flare."

"Consider it done," Krysty said, bolstering her revolver. She had split her .38

ammo with Mildred so each woman had three rounds, but that was enough for this

job. Besides, she was the logical choice. The redhead could hear better than any

of the others, and often could sense things happening, or about to happen. There

was no explanation for the ability, it was just something she could do. Same as

her mother.

"Take," Jak said, passing her the crossbow and quiver. "Got knives. Just as

silent."

The redhead slung the quiver and held the crossbow in both hands, testing its

balance. "Thanks."

Then J.B. handed her a glass bottle. "Just in case," he said with meaning. The

Armorer hated thinning his supply, but only suicides went into a hot spot

without backup or an escape route.

"Arrows and knives only," Ryan stated, working the slide on his silenced 9 mm

SIG-Sauer pistol. "We're doing a quiet recce. Only here to steal weps and food.

No chilling unless necessary. Anybody get separated from the rest of us, or run

into trouble, come straight back here. I'll take point with J.B. Mildred, cover

the rear with the crossbow."

Taking positions, the companions exited the tunnel and waited until they could

dimly see the subterranean ville below.

"Looks like a natural cavern," he said, doing a sweep with his binocs. "Hundreds

of sides tunnels. Damn place is a warren of holes. Might be easy to get lost.

Floor seems to be covered with lots of stalactites… stalagmites. Whichever. I

never could remember which is which."

"Stalagmites might fall down," Doc rumbled softly, sword in hand, "but cannot

because they grow up from the ground."

"That's good," Mildred complimented him.

"Thank you."

"Dark night, I see them," J.B. announced, adjusting the focus. "They sort of

look like people, two arms, two legs, one head. About all I can tell at this

distance. Doesn't seem to be any guards on patrol, or stationed lookouts."

"Even better," Ryan said. "Mebbe they don't have any enemies, aside from the

crabs. Any weps?"

"Nothing that requires two hands to hold."

"Leaves plenty," Jak grunted. "Knives, handcannons, boomerangs, slings."

"We can handle those," Ryan stated, patting his pockets to make sure he knew

exactly where everything was. "Okay, let's go."

"Ah, broiled crab for dinner," Mildred said, inhaling. "I can taste it already."

Going around the barricade, Ryan tested the slope, while keeping a hand on the

concrete for support. The ground was rough and his boots didn't slip, no matter

how hard he tried. The rock was as rough as sandpaper. Finally letting go of the

barricade, he advanced a few steps, staring intently down the slope.

"Bottom is only a few yards away," he whispered, easing down the incline.

"Single file, one yard spread."

J.B. was the first. The Armorer was a ghost in the darkness, but some pebbles

came loose, bounding down ahead of the man. He froze motionless.

Ryan mentally cursed the noise and braced for an attack.

Across the expanse, some blobs of light started coming their way, but then

sheared off to the right. Soon there came the sounds of a struggle, followed by

a crunching noise and brief high-pitched squeal of pain. Something just been

aced.

Moving more carefully, the rest of the companions reached the bottom and took

cover behind some stalagmites and boulders. Moving from rock to rock, they

zigzagged across the floor of the cavern, trying to stay behind cover. Most of

the stalagmites rose a hundred feet tall, maybe more, the tops far beyond the

weak illumination of the cavern walls, but a few were only inches high, mere

toothpicks rising from the damp floor. They were very careful not to step on any

and snap them off.

Examining the side of the cavern, Ryan saw the rock was covered with a silvery

moss that gave off a weak shine. Suspiciously, the man held a rad counter near

the fungi. Instantly, the device changed its soft musical hum to angry clicks as

he got within a few inches.

"Wall moss is rad poisoned," he warned tensely. "Don't touch any."

The collection of boulders soon stopped, and there was only open space

stretching from the rocky forest to the stone wall. The top twinkled like

starshine, razor-sharp chunks of crystal lining the barrier like military barbed

wire.

"What the nuking hell?" Ryan whispered in annoyance. "It's only a yard or so

high. Can't be more than four feet max."

"Could be a trip line," J.B. suggested softly. "Or a marker for the archers."

Ryan admitted both were possible, only there wasn't a higher fence beyond the

low one, just some huts. Studying the ville carefully, he suddenly understood

that the huts weren't larger than the wall, but located on top of rocky

mounds—no, piles of bricks. Deep underground, the locals lived underground

again, but the doors were no more than a yard tall.

"Mutie runts," Jak observed under his breath. "Good. Easy picking."

"Bullshit, pygmies are fierce warriors," Mildred corrected, wiping a sweaty hand

on her pants. She had to keep a good grip on the crossbow. The thing would have

a worse recoil than a shotgun. "They have to be or else don't survive. In

Africa, there were little natives deadly accurate with blowpipes and poisoned

needles. They could chill a man on the run at a hundred feet. Small doesn't mean

weak."

In the center of the ville was a bubbling spring, the air rich in the smells of

boiled meat and something else. A hoist of odd bits of metal and some wood hung

over the spring, metal chains dangling out of sight in the water. The hot spring

was their cooking pot.

"Not bad," J.B. muttered in spite of himself. "They're not mindless muties, like

stickies."

"Which makes them ten times more dangerous," Ryan said, then stopped talking. A

low singing came from a large squat building with star-shaped windows.

"That looks like their temple," Doc ventured hesitantly. "Maybe we caught them

on Sunday services."

"Odd windows," Jak said. "Worship sky, mebbe."

"It's probably been a long time since they last saw the stars," Mildred agreed.

"If ever."

Raising an open hand for silence, Ryan listened carefully. He could hear voices

from most of the buildings to their right. Sounded like dozens of villagers,

maybe more. But to their left they could hear only faint animal grunts.

"Head for the barnyard," Ryan ordered, creeping forward through the shadows.

"There's too many locals to chance a raid. Runts or not, a hundred can easily

kill five."

Staying in the boulders, the companions started toward the left when a horrible

smell began to infuse the atmosphere. The stink was easily identifiable as raw

sewage, and soon they found themselves ankle deep in a gooey field dotted with

tiny white sprouts, then grayish balls and finally huge mushrooms almost a foot

high.

"Dinner," Jak said with a grin, stuffing mushrooms into his shirt. A few of the

smaller sprouts went directly into his mouth. Two chews and he swallowed. The

flavor was a bit salty, but tasted wonderful.

Mildred plucked a mushroom and inspected it closely. "These are okay to eat,"

she said, then greedily stuffed it whole into her mouth. Even raw it was

wonderful.

"Mmm," J.B. mumbled around a mouthful, harvesting handfuls and stuffing them

into his carpetbag with the Molotov cocktails.

Trying one himself, Ryan grunted his agreement and started yanking up the

largest mushrooms. Ripping off the dirty stalks, he slid just the clean tops

into his pants. After boot soup, damn near anything would taste great.

Filling the pockets of his frock coat, Doc smiled. "Hunger is the best sauce, my

friend."

"Fucking A," Jak agreed wholeheartedly.

After taking as much as they could comfortably carry, the companions continued

toward the farm. Mushrooms were good, but you couldn't live off them. Damn near

no vitamins at all in the tasty fungus. Reaching a spot near the low wall, one

by one the companions darted out of hiding and raced across the open field of

stone. The jagged crystal bits sparkled dangerously on top of the wall, but they

easily jumped over and resumed positions in the shadows at the base.

When they were all inside, Ryan led the way along the wall, the companions

staying low where the darkness was thick. It occurred to Mildred that these

might be shadows to them, but brightly lit areas to the runts. But before she

could communicate the idea, Ryan called a halt as they reached a ring of small

stalagmites rising close to one another. Inside the stony picket fence was a

breathing sea of hairy bodies, naked pink tails whipping about as the sleeping

horde squeaked and rubbed comfortably against their fat neighbors.

"We were right. This is a ranch," Ryan stated. "Just common rats. No signs of

the big crabs."

"Mayhap the wall is for the crabs," Doc suggested. "To keep out the predators. I

used to live on a farm, and there was no greater cursed thief than a fox

stealing a chicken."

"Good, then rats lazy," Jak said eagerly, moving past both of the men. Going to

the fence, the teenager darted out a hand and grabbed a rat, slitting its throat

with a knife. The rodent barely squeaked before it died. Stuffing the body into

a carpetbag slung over his shoulder, the teenager proceeded to catch and kill as

many as he could before the fat sleepy rats got wise and moved away from his

lethal hands.

"Sixteen," Jak said with pride, patting the bag. "Fresh meat tonight." With

those words, the companions went motionless as something walked from the

shadows. It was a runt.

Wearing a loincloth and soft boots covered with fringe, the mutie stood barely

three feet tall. His skin was white to the point of being transparent, and blue

veins were clearly discernible. His hands possessed elongated fingers, and both

of his oversized eyes were a pale pink in color. Long black hair was tied with

leather thongs on top of his head in two bushy tufts.

Pausing at the stalagmite fence, the runt sniffed the air for a moment, a

three-fingered hand drawing a crystal dagger from a rat-skin sheath. Then,

moving even faster than Jak, it grabbed a bunch of rats by their tails and swung

the bodies hard against the rock wall. The animals squeaked once as their heads

smashed into pulp, and the mutie walked away humming.

"Just a cook," Ryan ventured once the runt was gone from sight.

"Those tufts must be feelers," Mildred muttered. "So they don't slam their heads

on the sloping tunnels."

"We got food, and if they have stone knives, there's nothing else here to

steal," Ryan stated bluntly. "Let's go."

As they headed along the wall, a runt staggered out of the darkness barely able

to stay on his feet. Going to the wall, he lifted his loincloth and they heard a

splashing sound. Sighing in relief, the mutie completed urinating and started

back the way he had come, then turned abruptly and headed for the rat farm.

The companions tried to duck out of his way, but the runt was too fast and he

gasped at the sight of the norms hidden in the wall shadows. Drawing a dagger,

he inhaled for a scream and Ryan moved like a panther, crossing the few yards in

a heartbeat Violently, he slammed a fist into the mutie's face to the sound of

shattering bones. The runt flailed its arms and dropped limply to the ground.

Moving past the corpse, the companions jumped over the wall and started across

the open plain when an odd noise in the air above made them spin, braced for an

attack. Unexpectedly, a net dropped from the sky, entangling their limbs and

weapons.

"Two-legs!" another female runt called out loudly, advancing into view. "Live

two-legs here!"

Shoving her weapon against the rope strands, Mildred fired the crossbow. The

homemade arrow took the mutie in the throat, and the runt backed away, gasping

for air as blood trickled down her chest.

A knife in each hand, Jak slashed wildly, the net parting at every touch of his

blades. Soon the companions shrugged off the last few pieces of the restraints.

Darting to the stalagmites, the companions paused to take stock of any wounds

and see if there was any pursuit.

Nobody was running after them, but in the ville, a runt climbed on top of the

temple and raised something small to its mouth. Ryan swung his blaster around in

case the blowgun was pointed at them even though the range was impossible. But

the runt aimed the thing toward the ceiling and blew so hard its cheeks puffed

out. Nothing seemed to happen. Maybe it was also drunk and hadn't heard the

warning of the others.

"Shit!" Mildred flinched, touching an ear. "Something just went straight through

my head. That must be an ultrasonic whistle."

"Madam, that makes no sense," Doc replied, cocking the hammer of his LeMat

handcannon. "The mutie talked to us normally. If we hear the same, why would one

use an ultrasonic dog whistle?"

"Call dogs," Jak growled.

J.B. said nothing, but hastily hauled a Molotov from his bag, spilling mushrooms

onto the ground.

"Ready the torches," Ryan said, flicking a butane lighter. "The bright light

should send these big-eyes powering away screaming."

The torches were prepared, but suddenly they noticed it was much easier to see

one another. In horror, the companions realized the cavern was significantly

brighter.

On the rooftop, the runt blew again, and the silvery moss on the walls flared

with illumination until the huge cavern was as bright as daylight.

"Fireblast!" Ryan cursed, firing once at the runt. "Back to the redoubt!"

Clutching his stomach, the mutie tumbled off the roof just as dozens more boiled

out of the temple and huts, screaming and waving weapons.

ROLLING ALONG the hard-packed ground, the LAV-25 was buffeted by the wild winds.

The ash storm was over, and the acid rains thankfully gone, but now with nothing

to stop or even slow them, the natural winds were ravaging the Tennessee valley.

Dead leaves and loose dust peppered the wag until they were driving blind.

"See any road?" Brandon demanded.

"Can't see my own dick!" the driver shouted. "I'm waiting for us to hit a

fucking cliff and die!"

"Ain't no cliffs in this direction," a corporal retorted, studying the compass

in his shaking hands. "Stay in this direction, and we'll be fine!"

Cresting a hill, the armored wag started down the other side, when it began to

build speed. The driver applied the brakes quickly, but there was no slowing of

their progress.

"Shit!" he cried, stomping the brakes with all his might. "We're sliding free.

No way to stop!"

Lunging across the interior of the wag, Brandon yanked on the mechanical brake

and they felt the eight wheels lock tight. But the APC continued to slide down

the smooth side of the steep hill, slowly starting to turn sideways.

"We're going to flip!" the lieutenant shouted, grabbing a ceiling stanchion.

"Hold on, boys!"

The wind slammed small debris against the wag, as the vehicle continued to turn

until it was traveling backward.

"Lock the rear door," a corporal shouted.

The nearest sec man barked a bitter laugh. "You lock the fucking door!" he shot

back, clutching his safety harness with both hands. "I ain't leaving this seat!"

"Coward!"

"Asshole!"

The corporal drew a blaster, and the LAV hit something with a jarring crash.

Every loose item the wag went airborne, shotgunning toward the rear. The sec men

cried out as plastic crates slammed into legs and one man went limp, his skull

crashed from the impact of a steel ammo box full of linked rounds for the 25 mm

cannon.

"Release the brake!" the sergeant shouted, staring at the map on the floor in

horror. "We got to get back control!"

"Why?" Brandon demanded.

"Lake!"

The lieutenant cursed and went for the release level when the wag slammed into

something again, the impact making it spin like a mad top. The supplies went all

over the vehicle, crates breaking open to spill MRE packs everywhere. A third

impact straightened their course, and the driver fought the steering levers,

trying to regain some control over the runaway war machine.

The duct tape covering an air vent burst free, and road dust poured into the

craft like a river of smoke. In seconds the interior was filled, the men gagging

and choking as they pulled shirts over their mouths in an effort to breathe. It

was a trick they learned from the ash storm, but the dust was a finer grain, and

it didn't work as well this time.

Then a sudden silence filled the APC and clean air streamed in through the

vents.

"We're out of the storm!" a private shouted happily.

"And falling!" another cried, looking through the tiny slits of the vent.

"Madonna save us! There's the lake!"

As the off-balance machine tumbled through the sky, the men flopped loosely in

their seats, only the web harness holding them in place. Ammo boxes broke apart

as the wag spun over and over, spilling live rounds into the mix of MRE packs,

boots and vomit.

Then a deafening explosion slammed the craft from underneath, cracking teeth and

splintering the Plexi-glas covering the driver's ob slit. Bones audibly broke as

the blues were violently heaved against the web straps. One sec man came free

and slammed into to the armored ceiling, his head erupting into a pulpy mess of

brains, bones and blood. The decapitated body fell, leaving an ear and some

sticky pink matter clinging to the steel plating.

Dizzy from a blow to the temple, Brandon could barely focus on the fact they

seemed to be rising and falling in a regular pattern. What the hell was this?

Then the answer came like a fist from the dark.

"The lake!" he gasped weakly. "We landed in the bastard lake!"

"We're sinking!" a sec man cried, struggling with his harness. "I got to get

out! I'm not going drown like a rat!"

"No, wait!" the officer shouted, raising a hand. "The LAV floats! We're okay!"

But the man struggled out of the web and stumbled toward the rear doors, walking

unsteadily to the bobbing of the machine. "Horseshit!" he snarled. "Metal

doesn't float."

"Sit down, Johnson!" the sergeant ordered in a booming voice. His commands were

usually obeyed instantly, the fear of the bullwhip in powerful hands more than

enough of a threat. But the scared man didn't even respond, as he clawed at the

locking bolt for the rear doors.

"I said, sit down now!" the sergeant shouted, drawing his blaster and cocking

the hammer. "We're afloat you triple-stupe fool. Open that and we sink!"

Another sec man reached out to grab Johnson, but the private fought free,

ripping his shirt in the process. His face was white, his eyes wild with fear

and he threw himself again at the aft doors, grabbing the locking bar with both

hands.

The sergeant leveled his weapon and the blaster spoke. Johnson slammed against

the double doors, a hole in his exposed spine, blood pumping onto the floor.

Furious, the sergeant leveled the pistol to shoot again.

"Don't! Ricochets!" the lieutenant warned.

But the hammer was already falling. The large-caliber slug plowed through the

dying man and slammed into the locking bar, knocking it loose. The left door

swung wide as the misshapen slug bounced off the steel and zinged off the walls,

floor and into the back of the driver's head. The dead man lurched forward,

cracking the dashboard with his face, blood flowing over the controls.

The open door revealed the choppy waters of the lake and low hills rising in the

distance. Fresh air rushed into the vehicle as Johnson toppled overboard and

sank from view. Then a wave crested the door sill, washing over their boots and

floating the airtight MRE food packs.

Struggling with the stubborn buckle of his safety harness, the sergeant dropped

his blaster and tried to rip himself loose by sheer-strength. Drawing a knife, a

corporal neatly sliced through the woven nylon belts and rushed to the doors

through the ankle-deep water. Another wave rolled inside, forcing the man back,

and the craft began to list slightly downward.

Unsnapping the buckle on his web harness, a private stood and dived toward the

rear. A sec man along the wall already had an arm extended. The first private

grabbed the other's hand, and the sec man desperately reached for the handle of

the armored door. Another wave washed inside, supplies caught in the current

going out the open doors and floating away.

"Everybody cut yourselves loose and go to the front!" Brandon shouted, sawing

desperately at the harness with a knife. "Got to balance the load and keep from

tipping over!"

Fingers stretching to the limit, the private brushed fingertips against the

waggling door, almost getting hold of the damp metal. Then another wave hit the

wag, and the door sloshed closer for a split second.

In triumph, the sec man grabbed the handle and started to pull the massive door

shut. It resisted going against the force of the waves, the water seriously

slowing its progress.

"Pull, you bastards! Pull!" the private shouted through gritted teeth. Tendons

rose from the sec man's arm, and the other planted a combat boot against the

wall for greater leverage and grabbed the first man with his right hand.

"Come on you mutie sucking son of a bitch!" he roared, and the second man

shouted in victory as the sluggish portal closed with a muffled bang.

The locking bar was shoved home, and the sec man slumped to the watery floor.

Finally free, Brandon went to the front of the wag and reached over the dead man

to flip some switches. The motors struggled for a moment, then roared into life,

a column of black smoke blowing skyward from the louvered exhaust port alongside

the main turret. He slapped a big red button, and a steady pumping sounded from

below. The water level in the machine dropped drastically until only a few small

puddles dotted the rough floor.

"Sergeant, get in the turret and shout out directions!" the lieutenant ordered,

dragging the dead man from the chair and sliding into his place.

Clambering up the short ladder, the sergeant threw open the top turret. Rough

waves were on every side. To the west was a tall cliff and behind it a swirling

wind storm, lightning flashing constantly in the clouds above.

"Head north!" the sec man shouted down below.

"You have the compass, jackass!"

He patted a pocket. Damn, so he did. "To your right! No wait, that's too much!

Perfect! Now hold it steady! The shore is only a mile away!"

The eight big wheels spuming madly, frothing the water in their wake, the LAV

headed for the nearby land.

Things below the surface of the lake were already fighting over the body of the

sec man, tentacles lashing wildly as multiple muties engaged in mortal combat

over the flesh. The scattered MRE packs floated away unnoticed, the waterproof

wrapping reflecting the dim sunlight like golden flakes on a silvery pool.

As the LAV-25 sloshed onward, the officer sure hoped the other wag had escaped

the storm without so many deaths. They were the last hope for the project, and

he had already decided that if there was no dish at any of the three locations,

well, they would just keep the wag and take off on their own. A man could make

himself a baron with a fighting craft like this!

Then he threw a look at the radio speaker in the ceiling.

"Well, we survived," Brandon said quickly. "All hail Baron Sheffield!"

The men noted what the officer was looking at and even the ones with broken

bones cheered as heartily as they could. The baron wasn't with them, but

Sheffield was still very much in control of his troops.

"Sir, Johnson is aced," a private reported from the rear of the vehicle.

The lieutenant glanced over a shoulder. "You're the guy who closed the door,

right?"

"Ah, yes, sir."

"Then you're the new driver. Take his shirt and blaster. When we hit the shore,

strip the dead of boots and ammo, anything else we might need. When we reach the

shore, toss them out."

"We need to bandage the men, and should check the APC for damage, too," the sec

man suggested, yanking off the corpse's gun belt and blaster. He could cut the

hash marks off the dead man's shirt later. The blaster was a lot more important.

"More to the right!" the sergeant shouted down. "That's it, sir. Hold your

course!"

"We'll do both on land," Brandon said gruffly. "But let the local animals attack

the body as a diversion. Get me?"

"Yes, sir. Better them than us."

"Words to live by," the officer muttered under his breath, glancing at the

silent radio speaker.

Chapter Eight

Charging through the stone columns, the companions headed for the slope that led

to the redoubt. Weighted nets fell from the sky, landing everywhere. The muties

were throwing blind, hoping for a catch, but the stalagmites blocked the nets

and many simply wrapped harmlessly around the columns.

Reaching the base of the slope, J.B. turned and fired two rounds at the

screaming mob. A runt fell sprawling, a dozen others behind him tripping over

the corpse. But the rest arced around the pile of wiggling forms, many twirling

slingshots at their sides.

A rock smashed on a column, the missile exploding apart from the impact. Doc

recoiled, a bloody cut on his cheek.

"Bounders!" he shouted, and fired the LeMat.

The thundering blast of the Civil War weapon echoed wildly in the confines of

the cavern. The runt with the sling flipped backward, a hole drilled completely

through his chest. Slowing their advance, the other muties angrily shook their

weapons and shouted. Then a dart of fire shot by overhead and impaled a runt.

The others backed away quickly.

Glancing upslope, Ryan saw Krysty standing at the mouth of the tunnel struggling

to reload the crossbow. Then he narrowed his eye and raised the SIG-Sauer,

firing at the runts that were crawling spiderlike along the sheer wall of the

cavern yards above the tunnel opening. He hit one, dislodging the mutie, and it

fell silently to its death on the rocky floor. Another was only wounded and

began to retreat, but the rest spread out and started to converge on the woman

from every direction.

Loaded crossbow in hand, Krysty stuck her head out for a second and saw the

runts coming her way. She shot at one, the arrow entering its neck all the way

to the feathers. The little humanoid still crawled on for another yard before

going limp and plummeting away.

"Molotovs!" Ryan shouted, drawing his panga, the long blade shining in the light

of the silver moss.

"Way ahead of you!" J.B. shouted, and threw a lit bomb at the runts among the

stalagmites. The bottle arched high and crashed in the middle of the muties,

coating them with the deadly mix of the alcohol and wag grease.

Their bodies covered with flames, hair sizzling like fuses, the runts dashed

insanely about, setting others on fire, until the unharmed muties turned their

weapons on their burning comrades, mercifully cutting them down and ending their

screams.

Her .38 Smith & Wesson spewing flame, Krysty blew the head off a runt. Then a

rain of stones hit the barricade, one going past her head so closely that for a

split second the woman saw her own distorted reflection in the lump of crystal.

She fired again and another fell off the rock face. But more were crawling

behind, fresh troops arriving every minute.

"Now what?" Mildred demanded, launching an arrow into the chanting throng. It

missed one, merely nicking his throat, but it slammed directly into the chest of

the runt behind him. The mutie beside the wounded male snatched away his dagger

and started forward.

Rocks from the slings were slamming into the slope and boulders as steady as

machine-gun bullets. Ryan fired twice more, runts grabbing their ruined faces as

they dropped, but more took their places, the chanting starting to rise in tempo

as the muties prepared for a rush.

Then a squad of female runts in stiff leather armor, carrying bone-tipped spears

and round shields studded with crystal shards, burst through the mob.

"By the Three Kennedys!" Doc roared, waving the smoke away from the muzzle of

his huge blaster. "Sec men!"

Ducking out of the way, Mildred dodged a barrage of rocks. "Those shields are

going to be trouble," Mildred grunted, notching in a fresh arrow. Four of the

steel-tipped ones remained. She had to make each one count.

"Not," Jak stated, and, stepping out from behind a boulder, the teenager leveled

his blaster and fired. The steel-jacketed .357 Magnum round plowed through a

shield, knocking a runt off her feet, the slug plowing into the female behind

her, and sending several more to the floor in disarray.

As Jak dived for cover, J.B. stood and lobbed another Molotov, with devasting

results.

Crossbow in hand, Krysty waited for a runt to stick his head around the mouth of

the tunnel. She thrust the crackling torch into his face with enough force to

dislodge the crawler. His hair on fire, the mutie hit the slope and rolled

downhill to smack into a stalagmite with a sickening crunch.

Mildred put a steel-tipped arrow into a warrior, then, as she loaded a wooden

shaft for a regular mutie, she cried out, dropping the crossbow and grabbing her

head.

"It's that whistle again!" Mildred shouted, her face contorted in pain.

"They're going to cut the lights," Ryan said in comprehension. The little

bastards were smart. The companions were trapped, and the runts knew it. They

would never make it up the exposed slope alive. It was too easy to pick them

off. Only two shots remained in the SIG-Sauer, and Doc and J.B. had about the

same. He needed a diversion, or someplace to fall back and take the fighting

hand-to-hand where their size and strength would work against the little

warriors.

A fiery dart streaked across the cavern from the tunnel overhead, the burning

arrow heading toward the caves on the left wall. Ryan glanced at Krysty, and she

looked to the right instead. He nodded, and she smiled. Then he pointed to

either side of the barricade, and Krysty hastily withdrew into the passageway.

Five more runts crawled around the edge and dropped into the tunnel, just as

they all heard the shattering of glass. A fireball blossomed to fill the tunnel,

the muties dying where they stood, flapping their arms as the Molotov consumed

them whole.

Shouting a battle cry, the armored warriors started forward and J.B. shot four

with the Uzi. Three dropped, and one staggered away, wounded in the thigh. The

rest quickly retreated behind stalagmites and threw spears.

"That's it," the Armorer said, pushing the blaster behind his back to get it out

of the way. "I'm down to four Molotovs and my knife."

"More than enough. Give me one, Jak another," Ryan ordered, grabbing a bottle.

"When the place goes dark, we make a firewall directly between us and them."

A lone spear arched high into the air to come down just behind the companions.

The runt warriors were testing the range.

"Won't hold long," Jak stated, sheathing a knife to take the bottle. The Colt

Python had only one round, and he was saving that for their mass attack, the

best chance to get more than one runt with the single round. And the closer, the

better.

"It'll do the job," Ryan stated, watching Mildred flinch as the silent whistle

was blown once more. "On my command we head to the right. Got it? The right!"

Another spear came their way as the moss began to dim, then the whole cavern

abruptly went dark.

"Now!" Ryan shouted, and the two Molotov went flying.

The whiskey bottles crashed yards apart, the splattering fire forming pools that

spread. The runts retreated a few yards, shouting in fury. Then Ryan lit the rag

on the third bomb and sent it flying toward their left with all his strength.

The muties seemed to have been waiting for this, because they charged in that

direction, heading for the cave Krysty's arrow had gone into.

"Now," Ryan said softly, running toward the right.

They nearly reached the side cave when a runt spied them and yelled a warning.

Ryan shot him down, and with his last 9 mm cartridge got a female warrior in the

armpit. She stood transfixed for a second, then toppled over as if boneless.

Reaching inside the cave, the companions lit the torches and threw them on the

floor at the opening. Now anybody entering would be in plain sight, while the

companions would stay in darkness. Spears flew through the flames, hitting the

walls and throwing off sprays of sparks.

Retreating for additional distance into the cave, Ryan bitterly cursed when he

saw they were trapped. The cave was merely a hole in the cavern wall that opened

onto a granite bridge that stretched over a black abyss and ended on a sheer

rock face. Nothing but endless space was visible below.

Doc spit out a word that had never graced his lips during his own era, then he

said it again more forcibly.

"Yep, this is going to be bad," Ryan said, bolstering his useless blaster.

"There's still a lot of them, and we have nowhere to go."

"We could always jump," Mildred said, glancing into the gloomy pit. There wasn't

even a moaning wind to emphasis the depth of the yawning crevice. Just total

silence.

"Always knew I'd get aced someday," J.B. said stoically, tilting back his

fedora. "Only hoped it was in bed making love with Millie one last time." It was

the first time J.B. had ever mentioned their sexual relationship in front of his

companions.

The physician turned at the pronouncement and grabbed the man by the jacket

lapels, pulling him close. The lovers kissed hard, then broke apart fast as

another spear came out of the tunnel, sliding along the rough ground.

Notching the final arrow, Mildred placed the loaded crossbow on the bridge for

anybody to grab, and she drew her Czech-made .38 ZKR target pistol. She was

going to make those three rounds last for as long as possible.

Just then a screaming warrior dived over the torches and rolled along the ground

undamaged. She warbled a cry, and more jumped through the flames successfully.

Going to one knee, Doc leveled his blaster, holding the cannon with both hands.

"Wait," Ryan advised.

Inside the passage, the armored runts gathered into a group, seemingly having to

gather their courage before attacking. But soon they were frothing at the mouth

and bellowing a challenge. The muties swarmed toward the norms.

"Now," Ryan said calmly.

Doc took in a breath, held it and fired. The muzzle-blast illuminated the

darkness to daylight. The leader spun, arms outstretched, throwing blood across

the others. The runts howled and covered their faces, dropping weapons and

stumbling in the gloom. A couple bumped into each other, then walked straight

off the bridge and plummeted out of sight Doc fired again, the second blast

scoring two Mils. Then J.B. threw the last Molotov, the liquid fire splashing

over a group of warriors carrying a basket. Screaming in agony, the creatures

dropped the basket and started to beat at their burning bodies with empty hands.

Holding the crossbow, Jak waited for an undamaged target, when harsh blue light

came from the basket, along with a sputtering and hissing noise.

"Retreat!" Ryan shouted, walking dangerously backward until he was flat against

the rockwall. The muties had a bomb or dynamite in there, maybe leftovers from

the predark mining. "Cover your ears!" The companions slapped palms over their

ears as protection from the concussion just as the wicker basket erupted in a

tremendous explosion. The entire cavern seemed to shake as stalactites rained

from the ceiling, then the granite bridge cracked, large pieces dropping off.

The companions clawed at the sheer wall for any purchase, when the rock

shattered, the painted plaster falling away in pieces to expose a hidden tunnel.

Without hesitation, Ryan and the others swarmed into the new opening just as the

shuddering granite bridge broke completely apart and fell into the inky

blackness.

Chapter Nine

The dining hall of the fortress at Front Royal was brightly lit by a hundred

thick candles and two roaring fireplaces. Servants carried in platters of food,

serving the dirty sec men and grimy civilians hastily gobbling down the food on

their plates.

At the head of the table sat Baron Nathan Cawdor. His clothes were patched, but

clean, and blasters rode at each hip. A monstrously huge .50-caliber Desert

Eagle pistol rested in a position of honor in a shoulder holster. The weapon had

been pried from the cold gray hand of Overton, would-be baron of Front Royal, as

he lay sprawled in the mud.

Nathan watched his troops consume the repast like muties at a fresh corpse.

Thankfully, the hunters had done well, better than anyone had hoped for, and the

ville had venison and bear meat by the ton in the smokehouses slowly being cured

for the coming winter months.

The repairs to Front Royal were almost complete. Nathan had taken a great risk

using sec men and civilians together on the task of rebuilding the keep and the

barbican at the front gate, but the gamble had paid off. There had been no

attacks by muties or coldhearts while his troops were busy with the construction

and too tired to fight. Give the men a few days, and the ville would be able to

properly defend itself again. That's all, just a few more days.

"Anybody need a beer?" Nathan asked the assemblage, hoisting a tankard of

bathtub ale. It was slightly green, but eminently drinkable.

"Down here, my lord!" a stone mason called out, waving a hand wrapped in rags in

lieu of a glove.

Nathan rose from his chair with the tankard in a fist, and the sec men and

civilians roared their disapproval. Even the servants looked askance.

"My lord!" the stone mason gasped, rising to block the man. "This isn't allowed!

A baron serving the troops?"

Nathan stared hard at the man. "I'm the baron," he said succinctly, "and shall

do as I please. When my workers are exhausted, I do what is needed."

"Which is why we would die for you, my lord," a sergeant said bluntly. "Any man

of us, and happy to do so! But we'll never let you do such a thing as this!"

The others murmured in agreement. "The day you serve us food," the stone mason

added, almost sounding angry, "is the day we revolt!"

Nathan slammed the tankard on the table, rattling dishes for yards. The Cawdor

temper was as famous as it was deadly. "Those are hanging words, Corporal,"

Nathan said gruffly.

The man remained adamant and shrugged. "Then hang me, Baron. But I'll be

rad-blasted before my baron brings me a drink!"

"And what about the lady?" a woman asked, entering the hall carrying a wooden

tray of beer mugs. Lady Tabitha Cawdor wore her long hair free, the tresses

almost reaching to her trim waist. She was in a loose gown of royal brown, heavy

pants peeking out from below the pleated skirt. Boots and belt were without

polish, and an M-16 longblaster was slung over a shoulder. Her hands were

heavily scarred, as was one cheek. She moved stiffly, but with her head held

high as befitting the wife of the local baron.

Clumsily, she moved to the table and placed down the tray with some difficulty.

The men dared not speak. They knew the tortures she had gone through and

considered her more than a lady.

"My lady," the officers said, bowing. "We are honored by your presence here."

"Thirsty, too, I hope," she replied, laughing and wiping her forehead. "Drink

your fill. This is a day of celebration. The barbican is complete. The chief

just rammed it with a wag at top speed, and the gate held. The repairs are

finished."

The whole room roared its approval, and a servant took the tray, passing out the

beer to eager hands.

"To the baron!" a farmer shouted. The workers thundered the name "Cawdor" over

and over.

"And to the good health of our new heir!" a cook added from the back of the

hall. "Five pounds going to two hundred, young Alexander Cawdor!"

The assemblage lifted their mugs high and drank in silence.

"Praise be," the sec man said with a grin, new life showing in his lined face.

"May he follow his good father, and not his triple-damned mutie loving uncle,

Harvey."

The workers and soldiers paused, glancing nervously at the baron. Nathan said

nothing, then slowly stood and spit on the floor.

"To hell with Harvey!" he bellowed, brandishing a mug, and the hall erupted with

cheers.

Reclaiming his chair, Nathan drank from the mug and placed it aside. "How are

you feeling, my love?" he asked softly. The nearby workers pretended they could

hear nothing.

Weakly, Tabitha smiled. "I'll live, and our son grows stronger every minute. I

had to find him a second wet nurse to feed that outrageous Cawdor appetite. But

that wasn't a problem since so many children had been…lost in the war."

Nathan placed his hand on top of hers and gently gave a squeeze. "We're lucky

our son lived, which is why I assigned the two of you twenty guards. The ville

means nothing if you aren't safe."

Hands under the table, Tabitha pursed her pale lips. "Do you really think such

extravagant precautions are necessary? Sullivan has been burned, Overton is

dead. Who would dare to attack the heir of Front Royal now?"

"Too many," Nathan growled, leaning back in his chair. The more prosperous the

ville became, the more coldhearts attacked, and mercies raided the outer

hamlets. The M-16 from their own armory, and the AK-47 blasters taken from the

blues were handling the problem easily, but the ammo was getting low quickly,

and they had no way of reloading the 7.62 mm rounds. A gunsmith tried using

black powder instead of cordite, and the weapon nearly exploded into pieces. Doc

Tanner had told them the secret of turning black powder into gunpowder, but that

mix of chems was even more powerful. Something purely for cannons, once the

blacksmiths finished making them. If ever, he added sullenly.

"Any word from Ryan or the others?"

"None," she answered. "Is that bad?"

"Neither bad nor good. My uncle could survive skydark itself." He poured more

beer in the mug. Death wasn't a topic for such a day. The corpses were buried.

It was time for the living to forget. "And how does the weather look?" he asked,

changing the subject.

"Clear," she replied, a smile almost returning to her tired face. "No sign of a

storm. Sorry."

"Shitfire," the baron cursed, and reached into his jacket for a predark steel

tube. He fondled it for a second, then opened the container and handed a fat

cigar to the nearest man. "Pass this down to Dundee. I bet him there would be

acid rain by the end of this week, but he said no. As always, he was correct."

"You wanted rain, my lord?" the man asked, shocked.

Tolerantly, Nathan smiled. "You're new here, yes? Thought so. Front Royal needs

the acid rain to make sulfur for our black powder. It's why we have gutters and

sewers. Every deadly drop becomes powder in our blasters."

"Damn me for a mutie." The farmer chuckled and passed the cigar to the next sec

man down.

The predark stogie made it to the old man with only a dozen sniffs taken of the

aged tobacco. Dundee tucked it away in a shirt pocket. His joints never failed.

There had been twinges of a coming storm, but then they faded unnaturally fast,

as if the rain had abruptly gone elsewhere. Damnedest thing.

Just then a line of servants arrived with baskets of fresh bread and brimming

tureens of stew, the chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in gravy thicker

than winter mud. It was food for workers, not dainty tidbits for barons.

"More soup?" a maid asked, gesturing with a ladle.

"Rads, no," a burly sec man replied, wiping his mouth. "Two bowls of your stew

is all any man can hold."

"Some men have bigger appetites than others," the redhead whispered

provocatively.

The sergeant laughed and winked at her. She tousled his hair playfully, then

walked away to serve the stew to other workers.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the far end of the hall, and the servants

danced out of the way of a hurrying sec man. His clothes were dappled with mud

from hard riding, most of the loops in his belt and bandoleer empty of rounds.

There was a half-healed wound on his neck, a dirty rag serving as a bandage.

Nathan lowered his mug as the man approached.

"Baron Nathan, bad news," he announced in a single breath.

"Report."

"Scouts have reported they spotted Baron Henderson alive in the woods!"

The dining hall grew quiet as Nathan frowned. "Impossible. His ville was melted!

Who reported such a thing?"

"Me," Clem said, striding forward. The sec chief was as lean and brown as a

starving bear, and considered twice as dangerous. The mountain man was dressed

completely in fur, including his boots. A wide leather belt circled his waist,

carrying a pouch and a hatchet, his chosen weapon for in-fighting. A bolt-action

Enfield longblaster rested on a wide shoulder, and a bandoleer of ammo was slung

across his chest.

Without removing his hat or blaster, Clem took a chair and grabbed a mug, only

to find it empty. "Shit!" he cursed.

Tabitha pushed a tankard to Nathan, who relayed the beer closer. "Then I must

accept the report as true," the baron stated. "So the old devil is still alive,

eh? His grandson and so-called healer, also?"

Ignoring the mug, Clem lifted the tankard, draining it in a series of steady

swallows, a little of the green beer dribbling down his chin. Placing the empty

container aside, he belched mightily. "Dark night, I needed that. T'ain't shine,

but it'll keep your heart pumping."

"Glad to hear it," Nathan said, motioning a servant to fetch another tankard.

"Give me details."

Pulling out a plug of tobacco, Clem bite off a chaw. "Yeah, Baron Henderson and

his weird offspring are both alive," he said while chewing. "They got about

fifty sec men. No wags, no slaves, no sign of that crazy healer. Must have

perished in the attack of whatever the hell it is that's been melting these

villes."

"At least it has stopped," Tabitha said, nibbling on a small piece of bread.

Removing his coonskin cap, Clem scratched his beard. "At least for the moment.

Baron, just in case our ville starts melting, do we have supplies hidden

outside?"

"In Overton's cave," Nathan replied, drawing his blaster and checking the load.

Satisfied, he bolstered the piece. "It's a good spot, and I saw no reason not to

use it."

"Agreed. Then I guess we're ready for trouble."

"Chief, what if Henderson attacks?" a lieutenant asked bluntly.

Nathan answered instead. "With only fifty men? I wish he would!"

Clem wasn't so sure about that Henderson was a crafty bastard, but he said

nothing. It had been a long day, and something told him it promised to be an

even longer night.

WALKING THE WESTERN parapet of Front Royal, a sec man in a brown shirt paused to

squint at a disturbance in the trees, while carving a tiny ship out of a piece

of scrap wood. There seemed to be a group of men coming toward the ville with

wags and horses. It might be traders or immigrants, but at that range he

couldn't tell. Better safe than dead, as the old saying went.

Sheathing his knife, the sec man pocketed the partially carved ship and slid the

M-16 blaster off his shoulder. With weapon in hand, the man strode toward the

warning bell, then staggered as a terrible pain took him in the side. Glancing

down, he saw the feathered end of an arrow jutting from just above his belt. As

he opened his mouth to shout, blood flowed over his lips, and he gagged for air,

a wave of weakness washing over him. Instinctively, the guard knew he was dying.

A cold clammy feeling filled his belly from the volume of blood flowing out of

the wound. His guts had to be slashed to ribbons.

The sec man rallied his strength and tried to walk. He had to warn the ville

that invaders were coming! His vision was blurry, the brass bell shifting

between a mile away and directly in front of him. He reached out to slap the

clapper dangling underneath and touched only air. But it was so close! Or was

it? Black dust, he couldn't tell how far away it was, his vision was so bad.

Now two ghostly bells slid up and down before the dying man, and cold sweat

trickled down his body. Forcing himself forward, the guard lunged for the bell

and fell flat on his face, the granite feeling oddly warm and comforting against

his cheek.

"Can't…die…" he said aloud, forcing himself to crawl on hands and knees. He

couldn't see the bell any longer. The world was tinged with red as if the

daylight were fading. He had only moments to live. He knew that, but he'd die as

he lived, protecting the ville and his baron. Raw fury fueled his strength,

adrenaline pumping through his slowing heart. In ragged stages, the sec man

stood and tried to draw his blaster, but the weapon clattered to the parapet,

making no noise as it hit the stonework and bounced into the courtyard below.

How could it not make noise? Black dust, he was already dead. The guard felt

sick and lightheaded at the same time. A fog masked his sight, and he could

sense his heart beating slower, and slower, inside his cold chest.

Grimly, the walking corpse lurched toward the edge of the wall when another

arrow slammed into his chest, piercing his heart. Total silence engulfed the sec

man, and he died never knowing if he reached the edge of the parapet or not.

THE COBBLESTONE STREETS of Front Royal were quiet. The market was closed, the

children at home having dinner, the bars serving their first rounds, the gaudy

house just opening its door for business. An old man was washing his hands in a

horse trough, a sec man walking patrol whistled a tuneless song and a blacksmith

banked the fires of her forge as a preparation for going home.

The blacksmith closed the doors of her shop and turned toward the tavern,

already thinking of beer and bread when the body fell from the sky and slammed

against the cobblestones with a sickening crunch, blood spewing from the mouth

of the dead man from the impact. A cat screeched at the sight and dashed away.

"Shitfire!" a farmer shouted, dropping a sack of turnips and backing away in

shock.

But the blacksmith glanced skyward, then rushed forward. Gingerly, she turned

the dead man over and saw a familiar face. It was "Admiral" Peters, the sec man

who couldn't swim, but loved boats. The Admiral had arrows through the kidney

and the heart, and his blaster was gone.

"Coldhearts!" the blacksmith bellowed at the top of her powerful lungs. "The

ville is under attack! Sound the alarm! Coldhearts!"

People began to race for cover, a bell was beaten and soon the drawbridge was

lumbering upward, a team of six strong men struggling to close the vulnerable

door.

"FIRE!" Baron Henderson commanded.

The line of sec men launched another whistling flight of arrows at Front Royal.

In the distance, another guard fell off the parapet of the ville, tumbling into

the moat where he disappeared with a watery splash.

Picking his nose, Henderson smiled in delight. The baron had chosen this

location with extreme care. It was a low ground swell with the setting sun

behind their backs, making it difficult for the others to see them. And a few

steps backward put them out of line-of-sight, making blasters useless. There

were trees on either side to hide his men, and even a creek to water the horses.

Henderson had no idea why Baron Cawdor would leave a spot like this open for

invaders. Maybe he wasn't as smart as Henderson had heard.

A picket line of sec men were spread out in a wide arc before him, the archers

sending waves of arrows over the high stone wall of the ville. He wanted as many

sec men dead as possible before the alarm was sounded, but then he wanted the

alarm sounded as loudly as possible.

Behind the hill was his can opener, a machine he had found in a predark book for

children. Henderson couldn't read, but there were pictures and the device was

simple to build. His troops had used it to smash several small villes along the

way, and it was unstoppable. Front Royal would be his within the hour. They

wouldn't dare to use their melting machine on their own ville.

"Why the fuck haven't they sounded the alarm yet?" Henderson complained, wiping

a hand clean on his pants. Then the old man caught the faint clanging of a bell.

"Took them long enough!" he snorted angrily. "I'll fix that laziness with a

touch of the whip once I'm in charge!"

A galloping horse stopped near the old man, and the rider jumped off to salute.

"My lord, the forward area is secure."

"Any casualties?" Henderson asked with little concern.

The rider smirked. "Not on our side."

"Good, go join the snipers in the trees near the front gate. When the brown

shirts start running out, cut them down inside that fancy barbican of theirs. I

want it blocked with their dead so none can escape."

"As you command, my lord." The man saluted and hopped on his horses to ride

around the castle to the other side.

"Stop shooting," the baron commanded. "Join the rest of the snipers in the

trees. They know we're here by now."

Squads of men were running along the parapets, some big man in furs seeming to

be directing things. There was no sign of Cawdor or his hot little wife.

Henderson had special plans for that juicy blonde. Oh yes, very special plans.

The archers broke ranks and ran for the cover of the trees. Laughing, Henderson

strolled over the hill to look at the can opener. A team of twenty horses

struggled to haul a heavy wooden wag through the tangles of wild grass, raising

clouds of gnats.

"Don't go to the crest," he commanded. "They can shoot at us from there. Park it

just below the top, where we can shoot them, but they can't hit us."

"Yes, Father," Thomas rambled, sliding off his horse and passing the reins to a

sec man. "But what if they smell a trap?"

The old man grinned. "It's already too late."

The wooden machine was huge, a flat platform on wheels, a tall set of braced

stanchions, with a cross arm longer than the base, and a lot of rope. It had

taken them less than a day to build.

"It's called a catapult," Henderson said, as the sec man pegged the wheels in

place to prevent the contraption moving. "It launches a fifty-pound rock three

hundred yards. Good accuracy, too, if the wind isn't too strong."

The wind was still that morning, with no sign of a storm.

"We're going to use rocks again?" Thomas asked, puzzled. "I don't think rocks

will harm those thick walls like the log palisades of those hamlets."

"You are correct. Rocks would do nothing here," the baron replied. "We're going

to use dynamite bombs."

Near the catapult, more sec men were lugging tiny wooden barrels, no more than a

demijohn in size, from the rear of a covered wag.

"Each of those small barrels is rilled with nails or broken glass, and has a

half-stick of dynamite inside," Henderson explained, pausing to take a pinch of

snuff. His box was almost empty. There had better be jolt in that fortress, or

else he'd skin the survivors alive until some was found. "Once we get the timing

right, they'll explode in the air, showering the ville with shrapnel like a

shotgun blast. There won't be a man, woman or dog alive inside those walls

within a few hours. My grandson… I tried it on a gang of muties once just to see

and blew them into pieces."

At the ville, sec men lined the parapets or stood in every window, the vented

barrels of the M-16s sticking out like porcupine quills. They were waiting for a

siege ladder to appear, or a mass attack. What fools.

"They're in position," Henderson said eagerly, wiping spittle off his chin.

"Launch the first bomb!"

The fuse was lit, and the rope holding down the cross arm cut. The arm traveled

a brief arc and slammed violently against the stopping bar. The whole catapult

shook, but the barrel in the scoop flew over the hill toward Front Royal. It

fireballed only yards short of the wall, the windows shattering, men

disappearing, the water in the moat seeming to boil under the barrage of nails

and glass.

The browns rallied within seconds, the return fire chewing the ground along the

top of the hill as they strived to reach the machine behind the mound of dirt.

"One inch longer fuse." Henderson laughed, openly rubbing between his legs. "I

want to see blood on this shot!"

The next barrel sailed over the wall and detonated above the city. Roofs

collapsed, and screams of pain sounded from the dying and wounded.

Suddenly, the defenders in the windows started shooting at the trees on either

side of the hill. Their sporadic fire became a steady stream of rounds, ripping

the foliage of the forest apart. More than once the blind firing was rewarded by

a yell of pain, or the scream of a dying horse. The Casanova troops dashed from

the thick greenery to take refuge behind the hill.

"Why would they do that?" Henderson whispered softly. "It makes no sense. No

sense at all! Unless…"

Without further comment, Henderson quickly climbed onto a horse and galloped for

the horizon. The rest of his troops were shocked at the behavior. The fight had

only begun. What was happening here? A few of the wiser sec men saw the

frightened face of their leader, grabbed horses and madly rode after the man.

One corporal refused to release the reins of his mount, and a lieutenant shot

him dead to get the stallion.

"Father?" Thomas cried out, watching the old man disappear into the distance.

What could he be up to, some sort of trick to fool the browns? It had to be.

They were winning the fight, soon Front Royal would be theirs!

Then in the woods, a man screamed in hideous pain. A blaster chattered. Another

scream. A third begged for mercy, his words cut off abruptly. Then the monsters

came out of the bushes on either side of the invaders.

The huge, massively muscled beasts only vaguely resembled the primitive dogs

they had been bred from. Clearly a lot of mastiff was in the mixed blood,

perhaps Doberman, maybe some mutie also, for the titanic animals stood chest

high at the foaming muzzle. Pointed fangs filled their long mouths, their black

coats as shiny as a wet road.

Silently, they moved among the yelling men, biting a groin and casting away the

flesh, only to dart forward and attack another victim. They never stayed to

savage the body or eat what they removed. It was uncanny, nightmarish.

Plowing through the troops, the black beasts bypassed the terrified horses and

charged for the catapult crew. Thomas couldn't believe it. How smart were these

things? The first dodged a stream of bullets from a rapidfire and leaped upon a

sec man, tearing out his throat, blood gushing from the grotesque wound. Shaking

its head to toss away the bloody gobbet, the dog charged again and took another

man in the groin. He dropped, screaming in a high-pitched voice, and fired at

the beast, but missed. The dog savagely closed its powerful jaws on his exposed

throat. There was a snap, and the noise stopped.

Now the remaining sec men started to fire at one another as the deadly canines

darted from man to man, removing a hand, ripping out a throat, or a belly. One

dog paused to swallow and was cut to pieces by cross fire from the blasters.

None of the others made that lethal mistake.

A beast sprinted toward Thomas, and he fired a blaster point-blank in its face.

The slug plowed a bloody furrow along its head, and the creature closed jaws on

the hand holding the weapon. The sec chief shrieked and fired again, the blast

going through the dog, and he recoiled with only stump at the ragged end of his

arm.

"Henderson, you lying bastard!" he roared, trying to draw his second blaster

with his left hand. The big man got it free of the holster but dropped it to the

ground. The dogs took this as their cue, and several converged on the weakening

man. He caught one by the neck and shook it with a jerk, the neck snapping like

a twig. Then another dog got him between the legs, as a third attached to his

throat. Thomas went down, his hand clawing for the knife in a sheath on the

wrong side of his body. His screams didn't last long, and soon there was only

the sound of ripping flesh on the far side of the hill.

"How MANY MEN did we lose?" Nathan demanded, wrapping a strip of cloth around

his bloody arm. The wound was minor, but it would take a healer to remove the

sliver of glass.

"Six, far as we know," Clem replied, sliding a fresh round into his Enfield.

"What was that thing called again?"

"Catapult," Nathan repeated, cradling the arm. "I planned this defense against

mercies with a piece of predark artillery, a Howitzer or a mortar, but it worked

well enough against the catapult."

"More than well enough, my lord." Clem grimaced, looking out the window at the

dogs tearing the bodies apart. They would continue to do so until recalled.

There was no way anybody could have survived this slaughter. Nathan had released

every dog the ville had, including the half-trained pups and bitches.

"So much for Baron Henderson," Clem said, allowing himself a small smile of

contentment. "We're never going to hear from that rad-blasted son of a mutie

again."

"MUTIE DOGS," Henderson spit, urging the horse to greater speed. "Never saw that

coming. Bloody, clever Cawdor. But not clever enough for me!"

"My lord!" a lieutenant shouted, riding close. "Where do we go from here?"

"To the south! We'll need an army to take Front Royal!" Henderson shouted, a

string of drool dripping from his mouth. "So I'm going to steal one!"

Chapter Ten

As the LAV-25 rolled along, the ragged woods thinned to flat grasslands and the

ruins of predark buildings rose on the horizon. Standing in the open turret,

Sergeant Campbell could see the pieces of the paved street beneath the strips of

grass, potholes and sewer grates dotting the expanse. The crumbling buildings

stood like the rotten teeth of a decomposing corpse—windows and doors, gone,

nothing existing above the second level. Curiously, the sergeant of Beta team

noted that the destruction seemed to be mostly caused by fires and looting. He

had seen ruins where the buildings were sheered off at exactly the same height

from a nuke blast knifing across the land. Skydark had to have been one bitch of

a show for the few survivors.

In a weedy fountain, a bronze statue was covered with a layer of green moss and

speckled with bird droppings. Wooden posts marked a long-gone fence, and a steel

post stood where some sort of sign had to have been. Campbell grew nervous when

he noticed how quiet the ruins were—no birds sang, and nothing moved in the

weeds or grass.

As the LAV rumbled into an open area, he called for a halt. "Scotty, check our

location," the sergeant ordered, jacking the bolt on the 25 mm electric cannon.

The hairs on his nape were stiff, but there was nothing dangerous in sight.

Maybe he was just tired. More coffee. Yeah, that's all he needed.

The rear doors of the APC swung open, and Scotty stepped out of the wag, his

blaster sweeping the ground for targets. The rest of the sec men remained inside

the wag, keeping a grip on their Kalashnikovs.

After a few minutes, the private tucked away his blaster and clumsily checked

the huge sextant Collette had given them. The antique was solid brass and

weighed several pounds. Carefully, he balanced sun overhead through the

billowing clouds, shot the horizon with the half-mirror, then did a few

calculations.

"This is the place, Sarge," he announced, lowering the sextant. "Trans

University. Any sign of a ville, or dish from up there?"

"Not yet," the sergeant growled, cupping his hands around his face to try to see

better. "No wait. There's something to our north. Big, white. Could be a dish."

"But no ville?"

"Nothing."

"Shit!"

"Motherfucker!" a sec man cursed, grabbing Scotty by the shirt and trying to

haul him inside the vehicle. "Bear!"

The private pulled loose and turned to see. A hairy giant was padding their way.

The huge grizzly stood ten feet tall, its fangs and long claws bared for a

fight.

Laughing in contempt, Scotty slid the AK-47 from his shoulder, aimed and fired a

short burst into the animal's belly. The bear stopped as if hitting a wall, then

screamed a challenge and rose to its hind legs, which made it appear even

larger. Scotty put another burst into its throat, and the animal staggered,

slumping slowly the ground and going still.

"Good shot," Campbell called from behind the cannon, as he eased his grip on the

trigger. "About time we had some fresh meat."

"Thanks," Scotty said, walking over to the beast and putting one more round into

its ear. The head jerked from the impact, and the beast exhaled into death.

"Son of a bitch," a corporal gasped, then chuckled. "The bastard was faking."

"Seen them do that before," Scotty said, kicking the body a few times just to

make sure. "Bears be smart. Smarter than dogs."

"Griz," a sec man said, scowling. "Nasty tough."

Climbing from the turret, Campbell jumped to the ground. "I like bear," he

stated. "Better skin it quick, though, or the bugs will start chewing the hide."

"Take the meat, sure," Scotty said, drawing a knife. "But why are we going to

tan it?"

"Present for Collette," Campbell said. "She likes fur and knows how to say

thanks to a real man."

The sec men laughed at the image of their sec chief spread-eagled on a bed

begging for it. They had all been there and wanted to go again. The bitch was a

roller coaster with a tongue.

"So how are we going to tan it?" the corporal asked, unsure.

Scotty rolled his eyes. Ville boys! Didn't know nothing about nothing. "Scrape

off the fat with a knife, then we all piss on it and rub in some salt. That'll

do until we can get it home."

"What do you mean, piss on it?" he demanded.

Suddenly, a winged creature darted in from the woods, landed on the bear and

plunged a barbed beak into the corpse, ripping out a bloody chunk of flesh.

The sec men stepped back and drew their blasters. The mutie looked just like a

screamwing, only it was much bigger, twice, three times the size!

Scotty fired at the screamwing, stitching a line of holes across the bear and

the mutie. The slugs slapped the thing around but didn't penetrate its leathery

hide.

Looking directly at the sec man, the screamwing launched itself off the bear and

crossed the twenty yards separating the two in only a second. Scotty cried out

as the mutie buried its beak into his chest, struggling to remove whatever

internal organ it had hooked with its beak.

"Chill it!" Campbell shouted, and opened fire with his Kalashnikov. The rest of

the troops did the same, and Scotty was torn to pieces under the fusillade of

bullets, his arms flailing wildly.

The human corpse dropped, and the screamwing struggled out from under the dead

man, a ropy piece of intestine dangling from its wicked beak. It stared at the

humans as it consumed the tidbit in a few swallows.

A private broke ranks and ran for the ruins, but the rest stood firm, then-

blasters blowing a hellstorm of lead at the gory killer. The 7.62 mm rounds

impacted all around the beast, a hole was punched through a whig, a bloody score

along one side of its body. Barely scratched, the mutie narrowed its hate-filled

eyes to slits and lifted into the air, angling its taloned feet at the gunners.

Dropping his Kalashnikov, Campbell drew his handcannon, aimed and fired. The

.45-caliber round from the Colt pistol slammed into the creature like the hand

of God, completely removing its head and neck. Blood pumping from the ghastly

wound, wings still flapping, the headless mutie flashed forward to crash into

the side of the armored LAV. Cursing, Campbell fired again and again at the

creature until it stopped flopping on the ground.

"Fucking muties!" he cursed, dropping the half-spent clip and slapping in a

fresh one. "Getting meaner every damn day. Hey, Adams, check Scotty."

Grabbing a predark med kit, the man rushed to the still form and rolled over the

body. "Aced, Sarge," the healer announced glumly, looking at the exposed lungs

and heart. "Nothing I can do to help."

Campbell bolstered his piece. "Shit, and he was the only one who knew how to

operate the sextant. It's yours now, Adams. Learn how to work that thing fast."

"Me?" he gulped. "Yes, Sarge."

"Mac, get his blaster and boots," the sergeant ordered, retrieving his

longblaster. "Corporal, you skin the bear. No sense wasting all that fresh meat.

Randy, man the 25 mm and shoot anything that ain't us. The rest of you apes stay

with me. We're going to do a fast recce of the area to see if there are any more

of those mings around."

"Didn't know a mutie could, like, you know, mutate," a private said hesitantly,

staring at the mutilated body of the screamwing. A breeze ruffled its wings, and

the man froze for a moment.

"Well, now you do," Campbell growled, heading for the nearest building.

In a tight group, the sec men entered the old structure through a gaping hole in

the wall. Most of the ceiling was still intact, but the entire floor was covered

with dried leaves. Endless shelves of books covered the walls, protruding into

the room as if the walls weren't enough to hold all of the volumes.

A private ran his hand along a shelf, the books exploding into dusty smoke.

Dried and useless. Anything useful had been looted long ago.

Exiting the library, they briefly checked a dirty dining room overgrown with

thickets, then a small building with its second floor acting as a roof. The

floor was bare ground, and a row of wooden crosses lined the walls, dusty

skeletons still attached to the thick beams by rope and nails. The torso of each

was intact, but the leg bones were smashed in almost exactly the same place.

Tiny pieces of white cloth marked with a faded red cross still clung the

skeletons, and one skull had a scalpel buried in its left eye socket. Another

had a stethoscope knotted around is neck.

"Whitecoats," a sec man growled, and spit at the skeletons.

Campbell snorted. "Locals probably busted their legs to make them chill faster."

"Where's the fun in that?" a private asked angrily.

"Civilians," the sergeant agreed. "Dumber than ville boys."

A sec man appeared in a doorway ahead of them, his face sweaty.

"Hey, Sarge," he said, licking dry lips. "Sorry that I ran, but that mutie was—"

The concussion of the handcannon boomed across the inside of the ruins, making

dust rain from the ceiling. The sec man slammed into the wall and slid to the

ground, a bloody hole in his arm.

"Strip the coward naked," Campbell ordered, bolstering his piece, "and leave him

alive."

"No, please," the man begged as the others advanced and began to rip off his

uniform. He tried to stop them, but the blood loss was already stealing the

strength from his body. Soon, he was nude in a pool of his own blood. "Sarge,

don't leave me like this! Please!"

A corporal backhanded the cringing man across the face. "We can't hear the dead,

Arnie," he said, sneering, and kicked the other man directly on the wound.

The pain flared beyond tolerance, and the sec man fainted dead away. Stopping at

the doorway on the way out, Campbell waited until the others were outside, then

surreptitiously tossed his unconscious brother a sharp knife. Rules be damned.

It was the least he could do for family.

By the time Beta team had completed a security sweep of the ruins, Adams was

finished with the bear, thick steaks piled in a tin bucket normally used for

drawing water from creeks. The scraped skin was attached to the outside

stanchions of the LAV with short pieces of rope, the hide dripping with piss and

shiny with salt crystals.

"Good job," Campbell complimented him, inspecting the hide. "That'll cure fine.

Okay, rest period is over. Everybody back in the wag. We still got to find that

dish."

Gratefully, the sec men climbed into the safety of the APC and closed the door,

sliding the locking bar with a loud clank. The driver started the diesel

engines, and the armored vehicle rolled away from the ruins. Laying abandoned in

the middle of the road was a reddish lump. The skinned carcass of the bear

glistening in the sunlight, long black lines of insects already marching over

the meat, carrying it away piece by piece. As the LAV disappeared into the

thickets, a muffled cry rose from inside the ruin of the hospital, then a body

hit the ground. Almost instantly, the insects began to angle toward the new

bounty of fresh food.

Less than an hour later, the LAV-25 plowed through a line of thorny thickets,

and the driver whooped in delight. Campbell smiled and slapped the sec man on

the shoulder.

There on the ground directly ahead of them was a near duplicate of the

blockhouse back at the Shiloh ville, and rising majestically above it was a

framework of girders and struts supporting an enormous dish. The structure

looked solid.

"Hot damn!" a sec man cried, peering out a blasterport. "We're going to be the

pussy patrol for rest of our lives!"

"Not yet," Campbell said, scratching his head. "We got to make sure it's intact.

But it looks mighty good, boys. Mighty fucking good! Adams on the 25 mm, Mac

stay in the LAV. You two come with me."

Grabbing their blasters from a wall rack, the men kicked open the rear doors,

fingers on triggers. Nothing stirred in the grass. Cautiously, they stepped from

the wag and circled to the blockhouse. Campbell tried the metal door, but it was

rusted shut.

"Need explosives to open that," he stated, stepping back and looking at the dish

towering above them. "Rest seems okay, though."

The framework was badly coated with rust, but still stood ten times the height

of a man into the cloudy sky. The dish itself spread above them like a slice of

white ice.

"Perfect!" a sec man said, sighing.

Experimentally, the sergeant reached out and slapped the main support girder.

The steel vibrated from the soft blow, making the entire structure tremble

slightly. With his heart in his throat, Campbell waited, but the quaking didn't

stop, it only got worse. Soon pieces of rust started to sprinkle to the ground

as the framework began to wobble.

"Oh shit, get back!" he shouted, sprinting for the LAV. The others were right

behind him.

The driver of the wag stared in horror as cracks appeared along the struts,

spreading like some horrible disease, the gaps widening as the metal yawned

apart, braces shattered into dust.

Frantically, he started the engine and threw the APC into reverse, slamming on

the gas pedal. The vehicle spun all eight tires in the damp grass, then they

reached dirt and the wag lurched backward, racing away from the falling dish.

Campbell grunted a curse and headed for the nearby trees. Those would offer some

protection, if only they got there soon enough! Then the air driven before the

falling dish slapped the men off their feet and threw them at the woods like

broken toys.

The sec men inside the LAV cried out as the wag slammed into a tree, coming to a

abrupt halt. Struggling with the stalled engines, the driver could only watch as

the weakening supports broke completely apart and the huge dish fell from the

sky, its shadow falling over the APC like a shroud. A man screamed, another

covered his head with his arms, and the dish thunderously slammed into the

ground only inches from the vehicle, a strut scraping the wag's armored prow.

The predark material crumbled into a compact pile of debris, spewing a cloud of

dust and pulverized plastic. More pieces fell, a few bounced off the wag with

loud bangs, and the crashing noise continued for minutes. Chunks of the dish

fell to the ground only to break apart again and start the whole process over,

but on a smaller scale. Only the cracking and shattering of the plastic, and the

groan of the twisting metal could be heard. Nothing was visible within the

roiling dust cloud.

Fifteen minutes passed before the noise of the destruction reached a level low

enough for the men to shout at one another, and finally the weak breeze blew

away enough of the dust to make seeing possible again.

Rising from a bush, Campbell glared at the mountain of plastic debris piled high

before the LAV. He wanted to be furious, but the driver had done the correct

thing. If he had stayed, the LAV might have been buried under that crap forever.

He walked closer to the destruction, surveying the unlimited wreckage. There was

nothing left of the predark dish except for twisted scraps of plastic and lumps

of rusted metal.

Turning, the sergeant looked for his men and saw their still forms sprawled on

the ground. One was at the base of a tree, his blood and guts spread along the

track like jam. The other lay pinned in place with a long shaft of white plastic

shoved through his body. Fuck! Four men down, and this only their first stop.

"Okay, you assholes, start digging!" he shouted. "We got a long ways to go if we

want to reach the next dish by sundown!"

Grumbling unhappily, the weary sec men started to climb out of the turret of the

wag and began the odious task of clearing a path through the debris.

STEPPING OUT OF THE WAY of the crumbling plaster, Ryan and the others looked

across the chasm along the shattered remains of the granite bridge. The

explosion had sealed the cave on the other side completely.

"No way we're jumping that," J.B. stated.

Keeping a hand on the wall for support, Mildred peered into the depths below.

"Not even a splash or a crash." she said softly., tilting, her head to listen.

"How deep is that hole?"

"Doesn't matter," Ryan stated, flicking a butane lighter and studying the cave

around them. Only it wasn't a cave, but another tunnel identical to the one

leading from the redoubt—the same smooth floor, arched walls, concrete braces

supporting the ceiling, bare metal hoops for wiring not installed.

Going to the edge, Jak lifted the loaded crossbow from the floor and made sure

the wooden arrow was firmly in place. This was their last weapon.

"Maybe the bridge was also part of this tunnel," Doc suggested, sheathing his

sword and locking the blade with a twist. "But a subterranean earthquake

collapsed the area, and only the reinforced floor of the tunnel remained."

Lifting a piece of plaster from the floor, J.B. inspected it closely. It was

plain white on one side and painted to resemble rock on the other. Triple

strange. "But why would anybody hide this tunnel?"

"Escape route?" Jak suggested. "Or no want runts find."

Taking the torch from his belt, Ryan lit the oily rags and started forward.

"Only one way to find out."

There was no silvery moss on the tunnel walls, the darkness seeming to swallow

the crackling light of the two torches. The drilled shaft echoed their steps as

the companions walked along.

Reaching an intersection, Ryan held out his torch to try to see down the side

passages. The right ended in a rockfall, slabs of granite sealing the tunnel

completely. But the left side went on for a distance. Faint noise could be heard

in the tunnel, voices, and some sort of dragging, moist sound. Frowning, Ryan

covered his mouth and jerked a hand toward the main tunnel. Once they reached

it, he walked away from the side tunnel a few yards before speaking.

"That sounded like the runts," he said.

"Good news, bad news," Mildred muttered, turning the knife in her hand

nervously.

J.B. tilted back his fedora. "What the hell is the good news?"

"If they got here, then there's a way back to the main cavern," she explained.

"We're not cut off."

"Do here," Jak said, offering the crossbow to the woman. Mildred took the weapon

and the teenager gestured, a knife sliding into each hand. "Never know what

hit."

"Not here. There's no cover," Ryan countered. "We need someplace to ambush the

muties. Can't go back to the bridge. The other side branch is blocked." He

turned and heading farther along the tunnel. "We keep going. Any ammo left?"

"Not a single round," J.B. stated grimly, patting his clothing.

"Everybody got a knife?"

"I daresay yes, my dear Ryan," Doc rumbled, sliding his sword free once more.

The tunnel continued for hundreds of yards, with the noise from the runts

becoming fainter until it was lost completely. But the companions kept going.

Just because they couldn't hear the rants, didn't mean the little muties weren't

still after them.

Suddenly, Ryan raised a hand for a halt. A faint blue star shone straight ahead

of them. They waited a few minutes but the light didn't move, or alter in any

way. Ryan waved a hand forward, and as the companions cautiously advanced, the

star became a beam of bluish light piercing the darkness. The companions kept to

the side of the tunnel to offer as small a target for snipers as possible.

"That's not daylight," Ryan said, squinting against the smoky flames of the

torch.

"More like a halogen light," J.B. stated incredulously.

Mildred shifted her grip on the crossbow. "Down here?"

He shrugged. "That's what it looks like."

"Could be," Ryan muttered, dropping the torch and grinding out the flames. "We

crawl from here. Mebbe this is the way to the surface."

"Ash storm okay by me," Jak said stoutly. "Least could run if need."

Extinguishing the second torch, the companions went on the floor and crept

toward the strange illumination until the light filled the tunnel brightly.

Knowing they were in plain sight, they waited for an attack, or any response,

but only silence greeted their presence.

Slowly, Ryan stood and walked into the light until he could see the front end of

some sort of machine. It was a truck with a broken grille. Its left headlight

was smashed, but the right blazed. Large rocks were strewed across the floor,

slabs of stone stacked behind the wag as if it had been caught in an avalanche.

His palm tight on the handle of his knife, Ryan edged past the chunks of

limestone. Glancing into the cab, he saw two corpses dressed in blue uniforms

slumped against the dashboard. Their heads were split open, slivers of

windshield protruding from their slack faces.

Sheathing the blade, Ryan whistled twice, and the rest of the companions rushed

forward to join him at the wreck.

"Dark night," J.B. whispered, taking in the scene. "How did this get all the way

down here?"

"Quake?" Jak asked, running a hand over the machine as if unsure it was actually

there. The metal was cold under his touch. "Been here while."

"Can't have been here for very long. The headlight is still working," Mildred

offered. "No, that's wrong. The nuke battery would power the bulb until it

burned out. Might have been here for weeks, months."

Reaching in through the broken window, Ryan pulled a sandwich off the top of the

dashboard. He squeezed the bread, and it crunched slightly. "Only been a couple

of weeks," he said, sniffing the food. Smelled like peanut butter. Definitely

predark supplies. He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. "Days," he corrected,

breaking the sandwich into pieces and passing the morsels around. Everybody

wolfed his or her portion and started to loot the vehicle.

Pulling open the door to the truck, Ryan grabbed the body of the blue shirt as

it fell out sideways. The corpse had a blaster in its belt, and an AK-47 rested

on the floor. Ryan tossed the handcannon and gun belt to J.B. and appropriated

the Kalashnikov. Briefly, the one-eyed man checked the weapon, dropping the clip

to make sure it contained ammo.

"Fireblast," he cursed, holding the magazine in the light. "The clip is bent. No

way this'll feed properly."

"Mine's okay," J.B. said, jacking the slide. "Got a full load of .45 rounds."

At the other door, Doc struggled with the handle. Impatiently, he used the

silver head of his swordstick to break the window and grab a second longblaster

from the hands of the other sec man. He tossed the weapon to Jak and yanked a

shoulder bag free of the corpse's stiff arms.

"Fucking A," Jak said, sounding pleased. "Let runts come now!"

Yanking open the canvas bag, Doc grinned in delight, "And here is even better

news," he said, lifting a handful of loaded clips into view. "Spare ammo by the

pound, and lots of grens!"

"Yo," Ryan called, holding out an open hand.

Doc tossed the man a clip, and Ryan slapped it into the breech of the rapidfire,

working the bolt to eject a live round, then dropping the clip to insert the

bullet, "This one works," he said, satisfied. "Give me two more. There are a lot

of runts."

"For a while," Doc agreed ominously, walking around the wag. He gave Ryan two

more and passed several to Jak. Judiciously, the old man then handed an

explosive charge to everybody. The last six he kept in the bag and slung it over

a shoulder.

"What kind are they?" Mildred asked, studying the military sphere. The ball was

colored green with a black stripe. She didn't know that code.

Holding the gren in the headlight, J.B. checked the colorations. "Steel

shrapnel," he announced. "High explosive, antipersonnel."

"Shit!" If they used them in the tight confines of the tunnel, the ricochets

could tear them into pieces.

Dragging the body from behind the wheel, Ryan checked the floor and the

glovebox. Nothing useful there, except for a metal ring of keys, which he

pocketed. Those might come in handy later. Pushing the seat forward, the

one-eyed warrior checked the storage compartment behind the seat. He found some

gnawed chicken bones, empty brass, a length of rope, a crowbar, a bullwhip, a

thermos, some heavy towing chain, a coil of fuse too coated with blood to ever

be useful, a blanket and some loose envelopes of shiny plastic.

"MRE packs," Ryan said, tossing them out behind as he dug for more. The packs

were loose, scattered amid the tools and junk as if completely unimportant.

Sheffield had to be rolling in predark supplies. Ryan cut his hands unearthing

the Mylar envelopes, but he didn't care. There was enough food for days.

The companions grabbed the packs off the floor and filled their pockets.

Everybody wanted to dig into the food here and now, but this was neither the

time nor the place. Jamming an envelope into her carpetbag, Mildred noticed a

tiny speck of light on her shoe. It wasn't same shade of blue as the halogen

headlights, and she held out a hand to catch the dot on her palm, tracking it

back to the pile of rocks. Another buried truck? She hesitantly placed an eye to

the opening and gasped.

"Sweet Jesus," she whispered in astonishment Just then, a noise came from down

the tunnel, and Ryan hurriedly killed the headlight. Darkness swallowed them

whole. Instantly, the noise stopped. "Runts here," Jak whispered. Tugging his

hat on tight, J.B. drew his Colt .45 pistol and snicked off the safety. "Any

idea how many?"

"All," the teenager answered grimly. "Let them come," Doc rumbled, pulling the

pin from a gren and dropping it into a pocket. Sticky tape held the spoon in

place, and he broke a thumbnail digging the end free and unwrapping the charge

so it was ready for use. With a good enough bounce, he could get the charge past

the runts and it would blow behind them, the shrapnel tearing them to pieces.

For a brief instant, Doc was back in his own time standing before his students

explaining this to them as they recoiled in horror, then reality returned and

the scholar prepared for bloody warfare.

"Hold the grens," the Armorer said suddenly, bolstering his piece. "I may have

something better. Give me a second."

Moving fast, J.B. went to the cab and found the thermos. Unscrewing the top to

make sure it was empty, he used a knife to break the vacuum seal and freed the

glass container inside. Gingerly lifting out the tube, he carried it to the

front of the wag and tried to lift the crumpled hood. It was stuck, so Doc and

Jak helped get it loose. Knowing what the man was doing, Ryan moved behind the

steering wheel and put his hand on the ignition switch. Locking the hood into

place, J.B. gave Jak the tube and fumbled with the engine until finding the

flexible hose that led to the carburetor. He sliced it off with a knife, took

the hose and stuffed the end into the glass container.

"Go!" he ordered.

Making sure the wag was in neutral, Ryan cranked the engine, the headlight

dimming as the starter struggled to turn the dead engine. The fuel pump wheezed

loudly, telling of a break in the diaphragm, but gas squirted out the end of the

hose and dribbled into the tube.

"Full!" J.B. said after a minute.

Ryan released the ignition switch and the lights came to life with full force.

Mildred handed J.B. rags she had cut from a sec man's shirt. The Armorer stuffed

a piece of cloth into the glass tube and tilted it for a few seconds to moisten

the fuse. Then he tied the wet rag around the neck of the bottle and screwed the

plastic cap back on tight.

"Not much, but it'll catch them unawares," he said, handing it to Mildred.

Placing the crossbow aside, she nodded, pulled a butane lighter from her pocket

and tested the flame to make sure it was at the maximum setting.

Swinging open the door to the cab, Ryan assumed a firing stance behind the

barrier. "Range," he demanded, resting the Kalashnikov on the dashboard, the

barrel sticking through the smashed windshield.

"Close," Jak said, a hand resting on the tunnel floor. "Can feel coming."

Moving with a purpose, the rest of the companions shifted some of the loose

rocks into a crude wall on either side of the chassis, and crouched behind the

cover, checking the found weapons again to make sure they would function.

The scuffling sounds grew louder and when the voices became clear, Ryan pulled

the switch, bathing the runts in the bright clear light.

They screamed and covered their faces, many dropping their weapons and backing

away. However, towering amid the rants was a monstrous creature of some kind,

abnormally large. Its slick skin shone with moisture, and a writhing nest of

tentacles reached out from below its miniature snarling face. The eyes were mere

slits, the mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth.

Now he knew what had been inside the temple of the runt ville. The runts had

brought along their god to finish them off.

"Fire!" Ryan shouted, triggering the longblaster in a chattering spray. The word

echoed down the tunnel, and the runts shouted in rage, shaking their spears as

the big mutie moved forward with a grinding noise, the tentacles grabbing hold

of the support columns and pulling its massive body along across the floor.

"Go for the face!" J.B. shouted, firing the blaster steadily, the big bore .45

booming in the underground tunnel.

The two Kalashnikovs stuttered in strident fury, the twin streams of 7.62 mm

rounds stitching the god across its lumpy body. Greenish blood pumped from the

puckered holes and the beast roared, extending a forked tongue toward the

companions.

The ropy muscle hit the grille and wrapped firmly around the exposed metalwork.

As the wag started squealing into movement, Doc lunged and the tongue dropped to

the ground, sliced in two, green ichor smeared along the man's slim sword. A

greenish froth filled its mouth, and the mutie howled in rage. Spurred on by the

awful pain, the lumbering creature dragged itself toward the norms even faster.

Out of ammo, Ryan and Jak dropped their exhausted clips and slapped in spares,

while Mildred put an arrow into the mutie's left eye, the shaft disappearing

into the gelatinous hide with no appreciable effect.

J.B. snapped off two fast rounds from the Colt, the thunderous discharges

illuminating the passageway as bright as day. The .45 slugs scored deep grooves

across the beast's head, removing a chunk of slimy flesh the size of a dinner

plate. The creature rumbled in pain and redoubled its forward speed.

Rushing toward the mutie, Mildred lit the fuse of the Molotov and threw the

bomb.

"Too high, madam!" Doc admonished, a deadly gren balanced in his grip. He

debated throwing it now, then realized her target and braced himself for the

results.

Tumbling through the air, the glass container smashed to pieces on the ceiling

directly above the mutie, pouring its contents of liquid fire upon the beast.

Coated with flames, the creature rose upward, bellowing a wordless scream. In

blind rage, it threw itself to the right, slamming into the tunnel walls as it

tried to shake off the fierce orange thing eating its flesh. The passageway

shuddered, loose debris raining to the tunnel floor as the mutie tried again and

again to pound out the flames. The runts rushed forward to help, only to have

their god crash them under its burning body. A retched stink filled the air.

Green blood welled from its mouth, pouring onto the floor and then, incredibly,

catching fire as the flames dripped onto the life fluid.

Retreating quickly, the companions stopped firing and watched as the

subterranean god began to fry inside and out. The light and heat grew into a

hellish bonfire, and still the thing struggled to reach its tormentors. Soon a

devil's skull with bulging eyes stared at the tiny humans, its stump of a tongue

stabbing outward but failing to hit the mark.

Taking careful aim, Ryan triggered the Kalashnikov, the bullet smashing apart

the cooking skull, the great wad of brain tissue expanding through the cracks

until the gooey pieces dribbled to the floor. The runts went deathly still as

the howling monster violently shuddered, then lurched forward one last time

before dropping lifeless to the ground. Fed by the blood of the dead god, the

fire raged out of control for minutes, then quickly died.

As the flames expired, the companions braced for the expected attack. But it

didn't come, and they heard the runts chanting something musical.

"Trick," Jak said, working the bolt on the AK-47 to clear a jam.

"No, I think they mean it," Ryan said, lowering his blaster. "We aced their

god."

Mildred barked a humorless laugh. "So now we're the gods?"

"Care to test that theory?" J.B. asked, keeping a steady two-handed grip on the

Colt.

Stepping out of the cab, the one-eyed warrior approached the crackling corpse

and saw the runts scamper away from him, bowing their heads respectfully.

"Speak talk?" Ryan demanded, standing brazen in the beam of the headlight.

"We speak," a runt muttered. He was dressed in armor like the female warriors,

with a spear and leather shield. There was an elaborate weave of bones in his

graying hair. "Machine god no kill, we worship!"

"I chief!" another male stormed. "You no talk machine god!"

"Machine god?" Jak asked.

"Machine-gun god is more like it," Doc muttered.

As the challenger strode forward, Ryan calmly shot the chief dead and the rested

covered their faces in fear.

"No kill! No kill!" the grayhair begged from the ground.

"You chief," Ryan stated, and, taking the shield of the aced runt, handed it to

the old runt.

Astonished, the mutie accepted the shield with reverence, then stood tall before

the others. "Bow before new chief!" he screamed, spraying spittle from his

loose-lipped mouth.

The others obeyed, moaning the song once more. Facing the much larger norm, the

chief went to one knee and lowered his misshapen head. "What machine god want us

do?"

"Return to your homes," Ryan said, resting the stock of the Kalashnikov on his

hip. "We follow."

"Yes, god!"

"And bring best rats. Many mushrooms."

"Bring all?" the chief asked fearfully.

Trying not to choke on the stink of the burning slug, Ryan knew food had to be

very scarce down here. "One rat for each finger and toe," he said. "Then I give

great gift."

"Gift?" the runt asked fearfully.

Magnanimously, Ryan waved a hand at the dead creature. "Eat fill of old god.

Make strong!"

The chief runt could only gawk at the incredible offer. He tried to speak

several times and finally got out, "Hail, machine god!"

On cue, the rest repeated the words. But one young male mumbled something under

his breath. Turning, the chief charged at the heretic and smashed the leather

shield on the youth's head again and again until he dropped senseless to the

tunnel floor.

"No challenge gods!" the grayhair shrieked. "Obey-obey-obey!"

The remaining runts doubled the level of their cheering, while several began to

loot the body of their fallen leader.

"What now?" J.B. asked, sidling closer. Acting casual, he tucked the Colt into

the holster, but he kept his hand on the butt of the blaster.

"We take the food and get back inside the redoubt," Ryan said. "After that, we

eat and lay some plans. Mebbe the runts here can help us get through the wall

around the ville."

"Better than that," Mildred said, gesturing with her head. "See the rock wall

over there? Remember the huge explosion we heard when we first approached the

Shiloh base? That was their stone quarry exploding during an avalanche."

Jak looked at the bodies laying near the crushed wag. "Overseers?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yep. Just on the other side of those rocks is their base."

"Dark night," J.B. exhaled. "We got a back door."

With a stern expression, Ryan started toward the wall, then paused. "We only get

one chance at this," he said solemnly. "We dig our way out, and the blues will

find the hole pretty damn fast. Got to do this at night, and with more weps."

"Which means we have to chance a jump," Doc said, wrapping the tape around the

handle of a gren, and carefully sliding the pin back into position. He eased the

charge into the canvas bag and took his swordstick by the top. At this range the

grens were useless, but his Spanish steel would make short work of the primitive

troglodytes.

"A jump," Ryan repeated. Shouldering the long-blaster, he started to walk

through the worshiping mob of little muties. "Do we have another choice?"

HITCHING UP THEIR PANTS, two sec men walked from the lav of the Shiloh ville

situated near the stone quarry when one of them stopped in his tracks.

"Hey, what the fuck was that?" the private asked, looking around. "Sounded like

a blaster on full-auto."

The sergeant bit off the end a cigar and inserted the tobacco fully into his

mouth to moisten the leaves. Setting the end on his back teeth, he struck a

match and lit the end of the cigar until it glowed cherry red. "Couldn't be," he

stated. "Ain't nobody got rapid-fires but us."

"Mebbe so," the private replied hesitantly, tightening his belt. "But I think we

better report it anyway."

"Sure," the sergeant said, puffing, completely unconcerned. "You do that.

Collette loves wild reports of ghostly blasterfire. Give you a big kiss."

Following the man back to the barracks, the private paled at the very thought of

angering their volatile chief and debated the wisdom of such an action.

Chapter Eleven

The tall grass almost reached the ob slit of Alpha team's LAV-25 as it traveled

through the waving expanse of wild wheat stalks. Braking to a halt in the middle

of a rolling field, the driver set the brakes but didn't kill the engine, the

big Detroit power plant chugging over steadily.

The vented muzzles of AK-47 longblasters jutted from every blasterport. One of

the back doors was swung open, and Private Michaels stepped to the ground,

blaster in hand. Some birds pecked at apples in a tree, and somewhere nearby a

stream babbled over stones. A loon called for its mate, and a swarm of bees

buzzed around the rusted hollow of a mailbox jutting from the ground.

"Keep me covered, boys," Michaels said, bolstering his piece and opening the

heavy wooden case hanging at his side. Extracting the sextant, he shot the sun

and started the simple calculations.

"Well?" Lieutenant Brandon asked impatiently. Soft wind ruffling his hair,

Brandon stood in the open hatch of the turret, an arm draped across the 25 mm

cannon.

"We're in Kentucky," the healer reported, his pencil busy. Then he looked up.

"Yep, this is where the dish and some pissant ville are supposed ta be."

No structures were visible for as far as they could see, only gently rolling

hills of low grass, some mountains to the north and a young forest to the west.

The lieutenant scowled. "You sure?"

Michaels carefully double-checked the compass, and then the sextant once more.

"Yes sir, this is the area. Map shows a big city dish right here where we're

standing."

"Seti," the lieutenant corrected him automatically. "Not city."

"Sure. What does that mean, anyway?" the man asked.

Brandon had no idea, but would never admit a weakness in front of his troops.

"Shut up," he snapped. "That's baron stuff."

The man accepted the rebuff and packed the sextant into its cushioned box. He

knew the predark instrument was much more valuable than him, and took

extraspecial care of it. If it got broken by his hand, the healer died.

"Okay, get out and stretch your legs," Brandon commanded, rising from his chair.

"Hit the latrine and let's get some coffee on. We got two hundred more miles

till the next dish."

"Hopefully," a private said, nursing the broken arm in a sling.

As the sec men climbed from the wag and started to gather wood for the campfire,

Brandon heard an odd thunder in the distance. Glancing at the sky, the sec man

saw purple clouds, laced with fiery orange and crackling with sheet lightning.

Nothing unusual there. Yet the noise got steadily louder, and the blues moved

toward the APC, grabbing their rifles and checking clips.

"Davies, take me 25 mm," Brandon ordered. "Tell us if you see anything!"

The man popped into the LAV and started up the short ladder to the turret when

men on horseback galloped into view from the valley below. The riders were half

hidden by their mounts, but the sec men could still see the males were stark

naked and heavily covered with scars in decorative patterns. Their long golden

hair was streaming wildly, and the newcomers had wide Oriental eyes and dark

skin. Bandoliers of ammo crossed their broad chests and blasters rode at every

hip, yet they carried long spears in their hands.

"Fucking coldhearts," the lieutenant said, calmly drawing his handcannon. "Ace

them and take the blasters."

The sec men cut loose with their Kalashnikovs, the rounds hitting man and beast

with little effect. A blue cursed and rummaged for a box of grens, when the top

turret of the LAV-25 rotated to point the 25 mm cannon at the horsemen. The

electric Gatling whined for a moment, building speed, then cut loose with a

roaring staff rod of destruction. Riders and horses exploded into grisly bits as

the high-explosive shells tore through their flesh. The first line of the riders

vanished in the brief salvo.

With amazing precision, the other barbs reared their horses, walking them about

on hind legs, then started to gallop away from the armored war wag.

"Again," the lieutenant ordered, laughing and bolstering his piece.

The Gatling roared, and half a dozen more of the riders were blown to pieces

under its furious assault before the rest made it to the safety of the ridge and

disappeared.

"Won't be seeing them again." Brandon laughed, rubbing his hands. "Now, how

about that coffee?"

Suddenly, a row of riders rose from behind the hill, their long spears soaring

into the air before cresting their arc and descending toward the sec men with

fearful accuracy.

The blues scattered, but it was too late. One caught a spear in the shoulder,

the lance going completely through and burying itself to the hilt in the soft

soil Another was caught through the boot, a third in the hand, his longblaster

smashed to pieces.

Trying to step out of the way of the falling missiles, Michaels was hit in the

mouth, the barbed lance going straight down his throat and out his ass, impaling

the man like a pig on a spit. Still horribly alive, the blue lashed his arms

about feebly, unable to scream with the wooden shaft completely filling his torn

and bleeding gullet. A steady stream of red trickled out, forming a puddle

around his boots.

Cursing vehemently, the lieutenant fired from me hip, blowing Michaels's head

off and the grisly corpse stopped moving.

"Chill those motherfucks!" Brandon yelled, and the LAV-25 rolled to the crest of

the hill. The silent riders were galloping madly along the valley plain below,

way beyond the range of the ineffective Kalashnikovs.

A soft electric whine heralded the roar of the 25 mm cannon, coming to deadly

life again, spraying annihilation onto the distant coldhearts. The ground behind

the horsemen churned with explosions as the armor-piercing rounds hit the soil

and detonated. The noise and spray urged the barbs on, but the Gatling swept

over the riders, killing the men and animals indiscriminately. Only a single

rider made it to the trees and disappeared from sight. The sec man at the

Gatling drilled a couple of short bursts into the greenery, then stopped wasting

ammo.

Standing on the hilltop, Brandon fired a few rounds from his blaster at the

escaping killer, then slapped in a fresh clip. Turning, he saw the carnage of

his squad—three badly wounded, one dead. As Brandon watched, the sec man with

the lance through his shoulder snapped off the shaft and gritted his teeth as he

pulled himself loose. Blood gushed from the wound, and he stuffed in a dirty

piece of cloth. The other men pinned by the lances did the same, painfully

freeing themselves by sheer determination. Only Michaels stayed in the same

position, the remains of his head lolling to one side as his arms swung loosely

from the gentle wind blowing over his upright corpse.

"Who were they?" Brandon demanded, breathing heavily. "Who the rad-blasted fuck

were those guys!"

A sec man dropped the empty clip from his AK-47 and slammed in a fresh magazine.

"Barbs," he replied angrily. "I heard tell of them as a kid. Outlanders that

ride the Kentucky plains, chilling everybody."

"Cannies?" a private asked, a friend bandaging the wound in his shoulder.

The corporal scratched under his cloth cap. "Nope. They just ace you. Don't take

blasters or food. Don't rape the women. Just kill folks, is all."

Brandon stayed on the hilltop, watching the valley below for any signs of more

barbs. "Why didn't they use those blasters?" he demanded, puzzled. "Give them a

better chance at least. They lost more men than they chilled."

"Those are just trophies from aced foes," the private explained slowly, as if in

disbelief. "They never use the blasters. Just those spears. Or so I heard."

"Guess it's true," another man stated, wrapping his bloody hand.

From the turret, Davies swung the cannon aside. "You mean they save blasters

like we do ears and dicks?"

"Yep."

"Outlanders," the sergeant stated gruffly. Grabbing a lance, he yanked it loose

from the soil. The weapon was over eight feet long, the barbed spearhead made of

steel that shone like winter ice in the sunlight. "Fresh steel," he muttered.

"These crazies can make new steel and use spears?"

"Lances," Brandon corrected, finally turning away from the forest. "That's no

spear."

The sergeant inspected the weapon curiously. "What's the difference, sir?"

Brandon took it from him and pointed. "A spear has a head. This wep is sharp

from the grip to the tip. A lot more deadly."

"Yeah, I saw that."

After stripping the healer of his blaster, gun belt and boots, the sec men

boarded the LAV-25 and drove away in silence. As the wag dwindled into the

distance, a lone man rose from the tall grass near the still-warm corpse. He was

breathing hard, and his muscular chest was coated with a sheen of sweat. With

knife in hand, the outlander stared hatefully at the escaping iron box. But the

barb wasn't overly concerned, because he knew the ways of the fat norms.

Confident in their own safety, they would stop at night and make a campfire to

cook food. They would sleep in woven cloth, with only one or two inside the box

with its chilling machine. The men inside would be the first to die, then all

the rest.

Scooping up a handful of earth, he stuffed his mouth full and swallowed the rich

dirt. Life renewed filled his body, and on foot the scarred warrior began to

chase after the machine people. In his mind, he was already wearing their

blasters.

RICH SMELLS of roasting meat permeated the kitchen of the Tennessee redoubt,

four of the sixteen ovens radiating waves of heat. Wearing an apron, Krysty laid

a platter full of fried mushrooms on the counter and Dean carried it to the

table, snatching a couple with his bare fingers. Doc gave everybody a serving,

and the companions dug in without talk.

"No more for me," Ryan said, pushing away the plate of tiny bones. He wiped his

mouth with an Army napkin and released a tremendous belch.

"In Arab countries that is a mark of appreciation," J.B. said, then chuckled,

slicing a small steak off a nondescript roast. He knew it was rat, but fresh

meat was healthier than the predark foods, even if the MRE packs did taste

better.

"Damn straight. Best rat I ever had."

"I raided the MRE packs," Krysty said from the kitchen. "Some salt and pepper, a

little mint, and rat cooks just fine."

"Mint?" Mildred asked, her fork paused before her face.

The redhead laughed. "Toothpaste."

"Mushrooms best," Dean mumbled, his mouth stuffed full as he shoveled in more

roasted meat. He didn't care what it was, as long as there was plenty. The more

he ate, the hungrier he seemed to be.

Wisely, Doc used a spoon to ladle the growing boy another heaping portion of the

mushrooms. "Don't forget to take some vitamins from the MRE packs after dinner,"

the man said. "Apparently, the blues had no idea what the tablets were."

"Fools," Jak said, chewing on a leg bone.

Ryan added, "Dead fools."

"Millie, what did you do with the boot soup?" J.B. asked, ripping open a plastic

pack and taking a bite of the cherry-nut cake inside. A hundred years old and it

was still moist. Predark whitecoats probably thought the mat-trans was their

greatest invention. His vote went for vacuum-sealed food packs.

"I sealed the rest in a couple of pots and put them the main refrigerator,"

Mildred said, pouring hot water from a tea kettle into a cracked mug. It had

some sort of an anchor logo with a Latin phrase that was too faded to read. "We

have fresh meat now, and the MRE packs for later, but it never hurts to have

spare rations tucked away. When we needed it, the soup kept us alive."

"Barely," Jak said in earnest honesty. He added a sprinkle of powdered milk into

his coffee, then some sugar. The teenager took a sip and felt the soothing

warmth spread through him like a healing potion.

"Damn," he exhaled in satisfaction.

Going to a sink in the kitchen, Ryan washed and went to the weapons table. They

had food now, and a way into the home base of the blues. Blasters were now their

top priority.

Before they left the tunnel, J.B. had drained the oil from the wag, and once

they were back in the redoubt, he filtered it carefully through some washed

sheets until satisfied it was pure enough to lubricate the weapons.

"Two crossbows," he said aloud, taking inventory. "Eight arrows with no heads.

Twelve AP grenades, two pounds of plas-ex with no detonators. Two gallons of

fuel, but no bottles to make Molotovs, a roll of fuse we can't get clean enough

to work, a Colt .45 with ten rounds and two Kalashnikovs, each with two 30-round

clips, and six loose rounds."

"Better than before," Doc commented, picking his teeth with a sharp bone. "But

hardly a cornucopia of ironmongery."

Rising from the dining table, J.B. carried a coffee cup to the weapons on

display. "About twenty rounds were damaged and not salvageable," he said, taking

a sip. "But I saved the powder, mixed it with some ash from the garage and got

three loads for Doc's LeMat. The rest I keep."

"Where did you get the lead?" Dean asked, mopping his plate with a piece of

canned bread.

"I had spare lead and wadding," Doc rumbled in reply, patting the handcannon at

his belt. "Just no powder or primers. John Barrymore, you are a wonder."

"Do what I can," the Armorer said, finishing his cup of coffee. "Just don't fire

that monster too close to me in case I made the mixture too strong."

Slung over his shoulder was the canvas bag that had held the grens they had

found. It now served the Armorer as his replacement munition bag. Mildred had

appropriated the other bag found in the wag. It was lighter, some sort of

polyester mix that was waterproof. She had washed it a dozen times to get the

bloodstains out, but some still remained as faint impressions of the original

owners. Mildred was already busy rebuilding her stash of med supplies: boiled

cloth on sandwich bags for large wounds, some tampons found in a footlocker for

small-caliber bullet wounds, a couple of kitchen knives she had ground to razor

sharpness on a grinding wheel in the garage, a plastic bottle of boiled water.

The physician even used a hacksaw to cut some copper pipe from under a sink to

make trach tubes and to drain pus from infected wounds. A pair of pliers and a

small set of tweezers completed the kit. It was a start. No matter how well

trained any doctor or surgeon was, he or she couldn't do much without the tools

of the trade. Bare hands could kill a lot faster than hers could cure. Sad, but

true.

"Rats are done cooking," Krysty announced, coming out from behind the counter.

"Just have to let them cool for a while, then we can stuff them in the fridge."

"We have enough food for a week," Mildred said, topping off her mug. "Which

leaves us with the problem of blasters."

Ryan lifted an AK-47 and ran his hands along the wooden grip. "We have the

element of surprise with that tunnel into the quarry," he said, working the bolt

and listening to the smooth sound of well-oiled parts. "And we can steal more

clips from the blues as we ace them."

"Truth, indeed, my dear friend," Doc intoned. "Yet we need much more plastique

to destroy the Kite."

"A hell of a lot more than we have at present," J.B. said. "That's for damn

sure."

"No time make more plas," Jak stated calmly, testing the draw on one of his many

leaf-bladed throwing knives. "So we jump."

"I just got a belly of food," Ryan said, crossing his arms. "Sure like to keep

that for a while before puking my guts out after a bad jump."

Krysty took a seat at the table. "How long should we wait?" she asked, glancing

at the physician.

"Hour should do," Mildred answered hesitantly, unwrapping a stick of chewing

gum. "Two would be better, though."

"Then we make a jump in two hours," Ryan stated, already disassembling a

Kalashnikov for one more thorough cleaning.

AS THE LAV-25 drove through the collection of ramshackle huts, the locals

watched the armored wag fearfully.

Standing in the turret, Campbell kept his hand on the 25 mm cannon in case of

trouble. The wag also came with a 7.62 mm electric machine gun, but Baron

Sheffield had removed the blaster to cover the hole in the wall at the Shiloh

ville. Reluctantly, the sergeant agreed. Their longblasters and the grens should

be enough firepower for any amount of opposition encountered. Especially with a

pesthole like this.

The ville was no more than a small creek feeding a muddy puddle, surrounded by

huts made from refuse and roofed with mud. There wasn't even a fence of cut logs

to keep out the muties, and anybody could make one of those. The locals were

either triple-stupe and lazy, or else had a shit load more blasters than they

were displaying. Only a handful of badly repaired bolt-action longblasters were

visible, and none of the men carried extra rounds in their belts. Those were

probably just showpieces used to frighten cold-hearts. The sec man had

encountered that trick before many times. A big man with a bushy beard had a

handcannon tucked into his belt, and there were a lot of cartridges in the

loops. But if there was any powder between the lead and the shell there was no

way of knowing until the hammer fell.

Everybody else was carrying axes and shovels, including the women. Campbell

snorted in disgust. Farmer weapons. Useless against the LAV, and they knew it.

This was all a bluff.

Then he jerked back as he realized metal struts stuck out from the roof of the

main hut, and that the walls sloped gently downward…it was the dish, flipped

over facedown. Now he could spot the smashed remnants of the support girders

used among the others huts, and the crumpling ruins of the blockhouse that had

once contained the controls and electric motors to angle the dish at the sats in

space. Gone, it was all gone, used by stinking farmers to make huts! A blind

rage filled the sec man, although he kept his face calm. The dirt-eating mutie

lovers were going to pay for that.

"Stop right there, outies," the bearded man ordered, holding up a hand. "Make a

move and we'll cut you down."

"Now, we don't want any trouble here, whitehair," Campbell said with a smile.

"Trouble is what you'll get!" the man shot back, resting a hand on his blaster.

"We got you covered good and tight. What you doing in Settee ville?"

Seti ville, the damn fools. "Just here to fuck your women," Campbell said,

drawing his Colt and shooting the man in the throat.

Instantly, the rest of the blues cut loose with their Kalashnikovs through the

blasterports. The farmers threw the axes and died. The people with rifles cast

them aside and pulled crossbows into action. Snarling in rage, Campbell flicked

on the cannon, and the people disintegrated under the barrage of shells, their

bodies blown to pieces.

Kicking open the back doors, the blues charged onto the street and started to

chill every male they saw, young and old. Many tried to flee for the woods, but

they never reached the trees alive.

Firing his Kalashnikov at the scurrying figures, Campbell laughed in delight.

His troops were tired from being bounced around in the APC for days and needed

some exercise. This mud pit would do fine for some R&R until they left for

Virginia to hunt for the next dish.

Separating from the howling mob, a scraggly white-hair dashed into her rickety

hut and came back with a huge handcannon. She cocked the hammer and pulled the

trigger, but the big bore blaster only made a soft bang and sprayed out some

pretty sparks. A laughing blue shirt shot her in the hip and stomach. As the

whitehair fell, she fired again, the weapon booming in discharge. A round

slammed into the turret just below Campbell, missing him by an inch.

Snarling, the sergeant flicked the cannon into operation for a moment, the old

woman and her hut vanishing in thunder and flame.

The slaughter was over within minutes. The blues herded the surviving women into

the middle of the ville, making them stand in the muddy hole. Ruthlessly, they

weeded out the ugly, the old and the pregnant, the lifeless bodies splashing

into the dirty water.

"Please, not my daughter," a woman begged, hugging the whimpering girl. "She

ain't never been with no man!"

Brutally slapping her hard across the face, Davies grinned as he pulled the

mother out of the mud by the collar of her tattered dress. "Good! I like them

fresh," he said, leering. "Going to do you both, so you better show her how it's

done right, or I'll hurt her real bad!"

Striding from the LAV, Campbell started for another girl in a tattered white

dress, when an older woman darted from the crowd and grabbed him by the leg.

"Take me. I ain't much with looks," she pleaded, "but I can do things no

young'un can. Dirty things you never thought of. Make a gaudy slut gag."

Campbell hauled the woman to her feet and ripped open her dress, her bare

breasts spilling into view. The woman made no sound as he squeezed her soft

flesh until tears filled her eyes.

"Yeah, you'll do," he said, pinching a nipple. "Okay, boys, take what you want

and ace the rest. This slut is mine."

As the sergeant pushed the woman toward the wag, the other blue shirts forced

the remaining females into the ruin of the dish. Laughing and jeering, the men

forced the women to strip each other naked and tie themselves to the tables and

beds with then' own clothing. Soon, only the sounds of muffled sobs and the slap

of wet flesh could be heard in the isolated ville.

TWO HOURS LATER, the companions gathered in the control room of the redoubt near

the door to the mat-trans chamber.

"Made straws for teams, draw," Jak said, holding out a fist. A collection of

plastic broom bristles jutted from his pale hand.

Scowling, Ryan shook his head. "Too risky. We go in balanced teams. Two each,

point and anchor. J.B. with me. Krysty with Dean, Jak with Mildred."

"Who goes first?" Dean asked.

"Ryan or me always take point," J.B. said, polishing his glasses. "Same goes for

here."

"And what about me?" Doc asked.

"Jumps hit you too hard," Krysty stated, brushing back her waving hair. "We

can't take the chance of you passing out for hours. The LD button only works for

thirty minutes. We'd lose you forever."

"Besides, one of us should be fully awake here just in case of trouble," Ryan

added gruffly. "I want that damn cannon of yours ready to cover my ass in case

we come back with a sec droid chasing us."

Doc said nothing for a few minutes, then relaxed his tense stance. "Then, you

may consider me, Paris," the man pledged. "None shall breech these gates of

Troy."

Arming themselves from the meager supply of weapons, Ryan and J.B. each took a

Kalashnikov, one extra clip and two grens. Except for their knives, the men left

behind their other weapons. There was no sense carrying deadweight when they

would need every ounce free to haul back supplies.

"Krysty, take the Colt. You and Doc stand guard here behind the comp console,"

Ryan directed, slinging the Russian rapidfire over a shoulder. "Shoot anybody

with us that's carrying a blaster. Jak, Dean and Mildred, take grens and stand

guard in the hallway. Kill anything that gets past Krysty and Doc."

"May Gaia protect you," Krysty said.

Nodding his thanks, Ryan turned toward the chamber door. After he and J.B.

stepped inside, the one-eyed man closed the door and waited. As always, the

mechanism paused for a few moments, as if waiting for a destination code to kick

in. Then the machine began to activate a random jump.

Slowly, a swirling mist began to cloud the chamber, twinkling lights like tiny

stars shooting through the metal disks of the floor. Then the thickening mists

masked the men, and it seemed as if they dropped through the solid floor into

infinity.

Wild visions filled their minds, and Ryan grimly knew it was the start of a

jumpmare. Sometimes the illusions were pleasant, fantasies of blue skies, green

pastures and sex. But more often they were horrid visions of doom and pain. This

time it was an endless kaleidoscope of disjointed scenes: Ryan standing above

the body of his brother Harvey, a black horse galloping into the horizon

silhouetted by a swollen red sun, Krysty glancing over her shoulder and smiling

just as a bullet plowed through her skull, removing most of her features. Ryan's

hands were covered with blood, burning blood whose fumes rose to fill the skies

as sirens howled and jetfighters soared away launching salvo after salvo of

missiles that streaked off into space, the contrails twisting and darkening into

loaves of fresh bread. The smell filled his mind, his stomach lurched with pain,

and then the merciful veil of unconsciousness claimed him.

GASPING FOR BREATH, Ryan shook uncontrollably, bitter bile rising into his

mouth. He forced it back down, only to have it rise once more in rebellion.

Nearby, J.B. was sprawled on the cold plastic, twitching and shaking.

Precious minutes ticked away before the men were able to force themselves erect

and take stock of their surroundings. The walls of the chamber were solid

yellow, almost a gold in color, with tiny flakes of bluish material.

"New…redoubt," J.B. croaked, wiping the sweat off his face. "Never been here

before."

With fumbling fingers, Ryan hit his wrist chron, and the second hand began to

sweep. "Come on," he muttered, using the AK-47 as a crutch to help get to his

boots. "Only got…twenty minutes remaining."

Weakly, the men opened the door and stumbled into a control room that was a near

duplicate of the one they had just departed. The control room was clean, the

comps humming softly, the screens scrolling with coded commands. Outside the

control room, the corridor was streaked with fire stains, doors buckled in and

the jambs partially melted.

"Clean," J.B. reported, checking the rad counter on his lapel.

Shifting the grip on his longblaster, Ryan grunted, saving his breath. Advancing

to the next level, the stairs began to get cleaner and soon they smelled green

growing plants.

"Hydroponic garden?" J.B. asked, his hands easy on the Kalashnikov submachine

gun. The weapon had an eight-pound trigger as a safety precaution against firing

if dropped or jostled. The Armorer had adjusted that, and now the blaster worked

on a hair trigger.

Two pounds of pressure, and it would spit subsonic lead at 600 rounds per

minute.

Tense, Ryan tested the air again, but there was no trace of the hypnotic perfume

of that deadly flower from Georgia. Lots of plants were mutated, some of them

even better than in predark days. But not that thing he and Krysty had found

inside that deadly sports arena.

Bypassing all other levels, the men headed straight for the armory. Most of the

redoubts were exactly the same, and the companions could find their way through

the redoubts with their eyes closed, a feat that had saved their lives several

times. Only a scant few were oddballs, with unique designs or layouts.

Thankfully, this wasn't one of them.

Passing a skeleton on the stairs, they entered the garage and stopped. There

were no tools on the walls, no wags in the parking spaces, even the fuel drums

were missing. Those were often empty, but almost always still in the redoubt.

Worse, the entire roof of the redoubt was gone, windblown trash and leaves

filling the garage. A warm breeze blew over the men as they glanced at the unf

amiliar stars overhead. None of the known constellations were in view.

"Resembles the Southern Cross," Ryan said irritably, looking upward.

J.B. shrugged. "Could be. But why would the American government set a redoubt in

Australia?"

"Why would they put one in Japan or Russia? Or seal that tunnel closed with

plaster? Who the fuck knows? The old whitecoats were crazy."

"Mighty odd," the Armorer agreed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ryan felt as if an important piece of the

puzzle of the redoubts had just fallen into place, but he couldn't understand

its subtle meaning. This was something he would have to think hard about later.

A beeping sounded from his wrist chron. "Ten more minutes," he announced. "Five

to reach the mat-trans unit, gives us five. Double-time to the armory!"

The men sprinted across the garage, only to find the corridor that led to the

armory was also carpeted with leaves, the door sagging on broken hinges,

fronting an empty room. The hundreds of shelves were vacant, and not a single

ammo clip or loose round was anywhere in sight.

Going to a pile of junk, J.B. lifted the top off a crate marked Claymore Mines.

Inside there were only empty slots in the mass of foam cushions.

"Nothing," J.B. stated, and sailed the lid across the room to crash into a

distant wall.

"This redoubt has been looted long ago," Ryan agreed, glancing around one last

time before heading for the stairs. "Let's go."

Returning to the mat-trans unit, Ryan's watch began to beep a warning as he hit

the LD button. The electronic mists rose from the floor, engulfing them once

more.

"Are we late?" J.B. asked, worried. "Did we miss the thirty-minute mark?"

"Find out soon," Ryan grdwled, clutching his longblaster and bracing for the

coming onslaught of jump sickness.

Chapter Twelve

Splashing through the wetlands, the LAV-25 of Alpha team rolled over snakes and

logs with equal ease. Gators bawed at the vehicle's approach, but backed away

from its bad smell and retreated to their secret underwater lairs. Humming

insects bobbed about the machine, searching for flesh to feed upon, but found

only impenetrable steel and sizzling hot exhaust, the reek killing them in

midair. Snug inside, the sec men relaxed in the cool breeze of the air

conditioner and ate a meal from MRE packs.

The armored wag dipped as its front wheels found a deep hole, then leveled as

the back wheels spun in the mud and forced the APC onto hard ground. Thick

Spanish moss hung in curtains off the sickly trees, black birds with two heads

flying slowly through the humid air. Everywhere the rusted bodies of predark

cars dotted the wetlands. Hoods had been removed, displaying mossy engine blocks

to the inclement weather, or exposing gaping holes where the engines had once

been. Some of the wags were completely submerged under the water, only their

roofs showing, or thin antennas sticking up like metallic reeds.

Smoking a cig and eating a sandwich, Lieutenant Brandon wasn't surprised by the

condition of the vehicles. Auto junkyards could be looted for lots of

things—tires to resole boots, windshields removed to be windows in a house, seat

cloth to make clothing. Radiators made good stills to cook shine, old-fashioned

batteries had lead plates inside to melt into new bullets. Sometimes there were

even tool kits in the trunks, or better, suitcases full of clean clothes and

sometimes even blasters. The fuel tanks were always empty. There were magnets in

the radio speakers a smart person could use to make compass needles, the needles

coming from manual carburetors, not those fancy injector things. Those were

useless. Floor mats sown together made rain gear that could keep you alive in an

acid rain storm, and paper maps in the little dashboard box could be used when

you went to the lav. The plastic ones were only good for patching a small hole

in a roof, but the papers ones were very good. Oil pans were good cooking pots,

hubcaps could be used as plates. Safety harnesses could be made into belts, and

you could use the mirrors to reflect candlelight, making one as bright as two.

And for reasons lost in time, a lot of cars carried bags of sand or rock salt

for no reason anybody had ever figured out.

Rolling over the wrecks, smashing bodies and cracking windshields, the LAV-25

plowed relentlessly through a hanging wall of creepers, passing a tiny island in

the shallow water. A few trees covered with moss partially hid a ramshackle hut

of tin and plywood. Rusty license plates shingled the roof, strips of fibrous

material from the dashboard firewalls peeking out from underneath, and shiny

hubcaps dotted the walls, but there was no way of knowing whether those were for

protection or merely decoration.

A hairy man clothed in rags and mirrored sunglasses stood by the hut, a homemade

blaster made from exhaust pipes tightly clenched in both hands. As the wag

neared, he cocked back both hammers until the rocker-arm springs clicked into

position, ready to drive the nails forward and set off the twin charges. Loaded

with window glass squares and lug nuts, the man braced himself against the

numbing recoil of the big bore weapon.

Having no interest in wasting ammo or time, the driver rolled past the hermit,

Brandon calmly eating his sandwich as he tracked the man with the 25 mm cannon

merely for fun, but with no intention of firing.

THE HERMIT WATCHED the wag until it was a tiny mote in the distance, then as it

disappeared into the vines and moss.

"Damn fools," he mouthed over toothless gums. "Think that toy's gonna save them?

Haw!" The laugh startled some birds, and they took to the sky on ebony wings.

Faraway, a stinger called for its mate, and something large splashed into the

water.

"Idiots," the man snuffled, and went inside the tin hut to start to cook dinner.

The nets had caught a lot of catfish this day, and he planned to fry the whole

batch. He'd make stew from what he couldn't eat at one sitting, and the rest

he'd poison and feed to the gators. About time to make some new clothes.

As he was rattling the pots and pans, an odd sound made the man turn, and he

gasped in shock.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, reaching for his makeshift weapon. The

lance took him full in the chest, going completely through and burying itself

halfway through the back wall.

Stealthily, the lone barb entered the hut and started to eat the raw catfish

quickly. There was no dry earth in the wetlands, and he needed food badly. The

men in blue shirts were near. Soon he would have them and the feasting would

truly begin.

AS THE SWIRLING electronic mists faded, Ryan and J.B. rolled limply on the

floor. Opening the door, the other companions rushed into the chamber and

checked them for damage.

"No wounds," Mildred stated, running her hands expertly over their forms. "No

broken bones, either. Just jump sickness. Help me get them into the room across

the hall."

"Not control room?" Jak asked, surprised.

"They might be asleep for hours," the physician said. "A double jump can hit

hard. Only be in the way in the control room if there's any trouble."

The teenager grunted in agreement.

"Unfortunately, I see no new blasters," Doc noted, taking Ryan by the shoulders,

while Jak got his feet. Krysty and Mildred did the same for J.B. The unconscious

men mumbled while they were hauled out of the chamber, but the words were too

low to understand.

Laying them on the carpeted floor in the office across the hall, Mildred slid

sofa cushions under then-heads to make the men comfortable. "Sleep is the best

thing for them now," she said. "I have a big pot of black coffee warming in the

kitchen for when they wake up."

Tenderly, Krysty brushed a hand along the scar that ran down Ryan's face. "I'm

just glad they came back alive," she stated softly.

"Me too," Dean said.

"Both tough," Jak praised. "Hard chill."

Standing, Doc rumbled, "Hard is not the same as impossible, my young friend."

"Guess it's our turn now," Krysty said, taking the AK-47 from Ryan and checking

the clip. Not a shot had been fired. Good. She took the spare clip from his

pocket, along with the two grens. Dean took the other blaster from J.B. and the

grens.

Slinging the blaster over a shoulder, Krysty undid her gun belt and gave the

Colt .45 to Jak. "Stay sharp," she warned.

"Razor," the teenager said grimly, buckling the blaster around his waist. Jak

checked the draw and settled the gun belt a little lower on his hips.

Closing the door to the office, the companions went back into the control room,

Jak and Doc taking positions behind the console, with Mildred staying in the

corridor, a primed gren in each hand.

"Ready?" Dean asked, swinging open the door to the mat-trans chamber.

Briefly, Krysty checked her wrist chron, making sure it was working. "Ready,"

the redhead answered.

Entering the chamber, they closed the door, sat and waited. Moments later the

primary circuits flared with power, and the mists swirled into existence around

their heads and boots until a silent hurricane of twinkling stars engulfed them,

the lights flashing faster and more brightly with every heartbeat…

OUTSIDE, THE SUN WAS starting to set, colored streamers of clouds filling the

sky like a tortured rainbow. Softly, the wind moaned over the bare landscape of

Shiloh valley, the hard ground vacant of even leaves or dust. What the compacted

ash hadn't trapped, the acid rain had dissolved or washed away.

Tapping steadily on the keypad next to the big black door, the old slave gasped

in astonishment as the massive portal set into the strange hillock suddenly

rumbled open, showing a long corridor. The walls were smooth, the high ceiling

lined with glowing light tubes unlike anything he had ever seen. The floor was

duty with a thin layer of ash, and laying prominently in sight was a handcannon.

A shiny new blaster just lay there waiting to be taken.

Furtively, the whitehair cast a glance over his shoulder to the snoring sec man

wrapped in a blanket and leaning against the Hummer. The low campfire cast a

reddish glow over the man and wag, making them appear to be painted in blood.

As the slave took a hesitant step toward the blaster, he inadvertently touched

the keypad, and the mammoth door began to close. Hastily, he jumped out of the

way, and it sealed with a resounding boom. Instantly, the sec man was standing,

his blaster out, eyes blinking away the sleep.

"What the fuck was that?" he demanded, the muzzle of the weapon swinging back

and forth.

"Just thunder, sir," the slave said, looking at the darkening sky. "Nothing

important, sir. Just thunder."

Suspicious, the sec man studied the growing twilight, then sat again, wrapping

the blanket around his shoulders.

"Toss some more wood on the fire," the blue shirt ordered around a yawn.

"Yes, sir. At once, sir," the whitehair replied, all the while mentally

repeating the sequence that opened the portal to the bunker over and over.

Freedom was close. Soon, very soon.

LAYING ON THE FLOOR of the mat-trans chamber, Krysty and Dean violently heaved

for several minutes, their stomachs rebelling at the instantaneous

transportation. As the sickness slowly faded from their bodies, the woman and

boy struggled to their feet and glanced around the mat-trans chamber. Lights

glowed in the patterned metal disks set in the floor and ceiling. The armaglass

walls were a pale blue streaked with soft gray.

"I think I know this place," Krysty said, feeling confused. For some unknown

reason she was trying to hear the sound of a distant siren. But there was only

silence.

"Not familiar to me," Dean countered, going to the chamber door, which opened

easily. The woman and boy were triple-alert, their weapons up and ready.

The next room was rectangular, roughly five yards by three, and quite empty

except for some wall shelves and a plastic table with a copper bowl. There was

residue inside that resembled dried blood. Acting on impulse, Krysty tapped the

bowl with a fingernail, and it rang with the clarity of a bell. Spent brass was

scattered about on the floor in a variety of calibers. Then it all came rushing

back to her.

"Gaia, protect us," Krysty whispered. "This is the first redoubt! The big one in

Alaska! The first redoubt we ever jumped to, that is."

Cradling the AK-47, Dean brightened. "The place with the big armory where Doc

first got his LeMat and J.B. his Uzi?"

"Yes." The woman sighed, her shoulders slumping. "That's the redoubt I mean."

"Hot pipe! Let's get going!" Dean cried, stumbling for the hallway door. "Dad

told me this place has the biggest armory of any redoubt! We can make a couple

of trips with the LD button and get all the ammo and food we need! Clothes,

missiles, grens. We could load a wag and drive into the chamber!"

"Don't bother running," Krysty said, slumping against the cool wall. "This base

is useless to us."

Already partially out the door, Dean turned with a stern expression. "What do

you mean?" he demanded anxiously. "It's got everything we need!"

"And more," Krysty agreed sadly. "It's also the biggest redoubt we ever

encountered. Miles and miles wide. I remember it taking us an hour to walk to

the main intersection of corridors, and then it was even farther to the armory."

Dean glanced at his chron. Seventeen minutes to go. "Aw, shit." He frowned, then

started for the door again. "We can at least take a fast recce. Mebbe something

got dropped."

Her red hair coiling nervously, Krysty rose and followed the boy into the

control room. Panels of consoles blinked in silent rhythms as the great machine

conferred with other comps, testing circuits. There was some spent brass on the

floor, and an empty cigar box on a console, the plastic smeared with brown

stains that vaguely resembled old blood.

Resting the Kalashnikov on a shoulder, Krysty tried to recall if anybody had

been wounded on their last jump here. Finn had been shot, somebody else also.

Was it Henn, or Okie? They had also gotten a new member of the crew, Lori Quint.

She had been with Doc for quite a while before… Krysty shook her head to dispel

the dark thoughts. Too many dead. It was difficult to keep track.

"Nothing," Dean announced, returning from the hallway. "Might as well leave."

Petulantly, he kicked over a chair and stomped back to the mat-trans chamber.

"Mebbe in the next redoubt," Krysty said hopefully. "We find a lot of bases with

a few supplies remaining. Only need one of those."

"We'll find blasters," the boy agreed confidently. "Just a matter of how soon."

Climbing inside the chamber, they hit the LD button and let the swirling mists

and twinkling lights cast them into nothingness, and beyond.

AS THE NOISE of the chamber faded, the door to the hallway swung open and a

stooped graybeard in furs walked into the control room. The old Russian scanned

the room, certain that strangers had invaded the redoubt.

"Could have sworn I heard voices," he muttered, glancing around. Then he placed

a hand on the control console and felt the heat rising off the comps.

"Yes, visitors," he hissed. "I will have to do something about that."

Then he began to randomly press buttons and flip switches, smiling as lines of

data began to scroll up the banks of comp screens and a distant hum increased in

volume.

"They won't come back!" The man laughed. "Gone forever."

FALLING THROUGH infinity, Krysty and Dean hurtled through the electronic void

when they felt a jarring lurch and knew that something was terribly wrong. A

dimly seen floor materialized beneath them, and both were seized by bitter cold.

Somehow, the air felt slow and it was difficult to breath. As the mists

vanished, their clothes became instantly soaked and each realized they were

underwater.

Skeletons of rotting bodies drifted past the choking pair, the rusted remains of

blasters laying on the slimy armaglass floor. Dimly seen through the cloudy

water, the chamber door was marked with discolorations and deep scores. The

other prisoners had died trying to get free before drowning.

Frantically, Krysty reached out for the LD button, but Dean was already there.

As the button was depressed, the mists began to build once more, and they fought

to keep from trying to draw in a breath of air. Hearts pounding, each thought

their aching lungs were about to burst when they dropped once more into the

artificial abyss of nothingness, but this time unsure of where they were going,

or if they would get there alive…

THE SHALLOW WATERS of the Pennsylvania wetlands gradually became dry land, and

Alpha team's LAV increased speed as it moved effortlessly across the fields of

stubby grass.

"Sir!" the gunner in the turret called. "Something big on the horizon!"

"A ville?" Brandon asked, dry shaving with a plastic razor from one of their

packs. "I think it's a dish, sir!"

Dropping the blue stick, the officer rushed to an ob slit. "Half speed," Brandon

ordered. "We want to recce the area first."

The wag slowed to a crawl, and the sec men crowded the ob slits and blasterports

to catch a glimpse. Sure enough, rising above the morass of trees was a dish,

just like the one at their base, only much bigger. Almost double the size.

"Jackpot," the corporal announced grinning around a cig, and slapped a private

on the shoulder.

"We still have to check out the ville," the lieutenant countered. "But so far,

so good."

Rolling closer, every weapon at the ready, the sec men could see that the

predark dish was intact and in near-perfect condition. The concrete bunker at

its base was almost identical to the one at their own ville. The framework of

supporting girders seemed intact. A heavy infestation of thorny vines covered

the dish and frame, but the slaves could clear those away in a couple of hours.

"We found it," the driver shouted. "Hot damn, we found one!"

"Shut up," Brandon ordered, staring out an ob slit, a hand resting on his

bolstered blaster. "How stupe are you?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

He pointed with a thumb. "See that? The animals aren't checking this wag out

very closely. It's strange, but not frightening."

"Wags been here before," the corporal puffed. "Stay hot, boys. We could have

company."

In response, the gunner in the turret slapped the breech of the electric cannon,

making sure the ammo belt was firmly in place. "We're ready," Davies said

confidently.

"Everybody out," the lieutenant ordered brusquely. "I want a perimeter sweep of

fifty yards in every direction. Chill anything you find. We're not going to make

the same mistake twice!"

Grabbing their blasters, the blues exited the vehicle and spread out in a loose

circle, plowing through the bushes and tall weeds, their blasters steadily

chattering at anything they found. Soon, dead animals and birds were strewed

across the ground, pumping their blood onto the dry soil.

While the troops were busy, the corporal walked to the blockhouse and risked

shaking one of the support columns. The steel girders didn't move.

"Strong as chains!" the sec man called out happily. "We got a winner, sir. This

dish is perfect shape."

"Any holes or cracks?" the lieutenant asked, walking closer.

"Smooth as a whore's tongue."

"Good," Brandon replied, and pulled the map from his pocket to check their

location. "Now there's supposed to be a big ville nearby, just to the west. We

find that, and we can go home."

Just then, a sec man cried out and disappeared from sight. The others recoiled,

and another man screamed as he slid into the dirt, the grass closing over his

head without leaving a trace. His cries seemed to echo from underground for a

few moments, and then there was only silence.

"Muties!" a corporal shouted, firing his AK-47 in short bursts at the greenery

underfoot.

A gray tentacle snaked up from the ground and grabbed a second blue shirt around

the chest, the thorny tip sinking into his flesh like a fish hook. Quickly, the

sec man next to him fired at the ropy limb. The slugs blew a hole through the

tentacle, exposing only strange undulating fibers inside, no meat or bones.

Convulsing, the gray limb dragged its captive headfirst into the soil, leaving

his blaster behind.

"It's underground! Shoot the grass!" Brandon ordered, running for the APC. What

the fuck was this thing, a plant or an animal? Both could be killed with

blasters, but only if they could see it. And dirt was about the best bullet

stopper there was. Some villes were merely surrounded by a wall of cloth bags

filled with dirt. Arrows, bullets, nothing could get through that. A few feet

underground, and the thing might as well be armor plated for all the good the

Kalashnikovs would do.

The lieutenant fired his handcannon wildly at the soil as the others hopped

about for their lives, the AK-47s spraying lead at the grass. When he was close

enough, Brandon threw himself at the open doors and landed inside the wag. With

a kick, he closed the door and threw the lock.

A third tentacle shot straight up into view, and the corporal hacked at it with

his Bowie knife. The blade became embedded halfway through and the limb was

withdrawn, taking the knife. Wordlessly, the corporal retreated and a sec man

charged forward, shoving his blaster barrel into the ground while firing.

"No!" the corporal shouted, hastily raising an arm for protection.

The Kalashnikov chattered briefly, then seemed to expand, the breech stretching

and breaking apart, as the jammed weapon exploded. A flash from the blast masked

the man, then he was back, staring in horror at the tattered stumps of his arms,

blood pumping from the open ends with every heartbeat. His mutilated face

contorted in a wordless scream. The sec man staggered, and his pants and shirt

turned red from the thousands of deep cuts in his flesh. Blood was everywhere

and he fell to the ground face first, transfixed from the shock and the pain.

As if this were a signal, the field erupted with writhing tentacles: one

snatched a bird hopping on the soil; another crushed a rabbit hidden in a bush.

The men yelled in fear and fired their weapons in every direction. The weird

limbs shook with the passage of the bullet through them, then headed directly

for the source of the noise.

A blue shirt near the framework of the dish was hooked and dropped his blaster

to grab the metal struts with both hands. His screams increased as another

tentacle caught him in the thigh, and his flesh started to rip away in pieces as

the mutie tried to claim the struggling food.

"No, you nuke-sucking bastard!" he screamed, then, as his weakening hands

slipped off the struts, the man pulled the ring on a gren and released the

arming lever. "Fuck you! Take you with me, motherfuck!"

The lashing tentacles hauled the sec man from sight, the loose soil filling the

hole after he was gone. Then a muffled blast shook the field, and all of the

tentacles shot stiffly into the air as a section of the ground heaved skyward.

"Hurt you, did we?" a private snarled, hauling a gren from his pocket. "Then try

this!"

Following his lead, several of the blues tossed explosive charges, then ducked.

Thunder shook the field, and when the roiling smoke cleared two more sec men

were in pieces, others badly wounded. The tentacles grabbed the chunks of warm

meat and took them away.

"Stop that, you idiots!" the corporal commanded. "Davies, use the freaking

cannon and chill this mutie freak!"

The 25 mm cannon cut loose, blows chunks of greenery sky-high, fireballs

blossoming under the furious assault. Instantly, dozens of the tentacles lashed

at the wag, slapping the hull with ringing force as they tried to gain entrance.

Now with a visible target, the blues concentrated their firepower on the LAV,

cutting a limb in two. As the tip fell away, yellowish fluid squirted from the

stump. Suddenly, a quake shook the field and the back end of the LAV dipped into

the soil. The lieutenant and the gunner screamed from within the APC as the

vehicle dropped another yard lower. The big diesel engines started with a roar,

the double rows of studded tires spinning in the loose soil, trying to find

purchase.

The remaining sec men rushed toward the sinking LAV, firing their blasters at

the sticky soil, a few tossing grens. Cutting himself off in the middle of a

warning, the corporal backed away from the scene as quietly as possible, waiting

for the slaughter.

Exhaust spewing, engines roaring, wheels spinning, the LAV bucked like a living

thing as it tilted awkwardly, first this way, then that way. Out of control, the

cannonfire swept through the defenders, blowing the sec men to pieces. The

corporal used the gory diversion to race away from the area and desperately

climb up the support column of the dish until he was high in the sky.

Tentacles, vines, limbs, whatever the hell they were, rose from the land by the

dozens, grabbing everything, every bloody boot and severed hand. In moments the

blues were gone, and the limbs crawled over the hull of the straggling APC,

jabbing into the air vents and blasterports, wrapping around the studded tires,

the door handles, stanchions, seizing anything that offered a solid grip.

Holding his breath, the corporal watched as the men inside the vehicle fought

for their lives, firing through the blasterports and shoving out grens. The

electric cannon never stopped firing, the 25 mm shells tearing up the landscape

as the machine was inexorably drawn lower and lower into the churning soil. The

headlights flared on, and somebody tried to open the back doors, the latch

rattling loudly. Soon the grass reached the ob slits, rose over the stanchions,

and then the hood, until only the turret itself was visible.

As soil covered the exhaust ports, the noise of the engines abruptly ceased.

Then the top hatch was flung open and the lieutenant crawled into view. A

tentacle caught him by the wrist, and Brandon fired a blaster, blowing off his

own hand. Another ropy limb wrapped itself around his calf, sinking the barb

deep into his leg. Openly weeping, the sec man fired his blaster twice more at

the thorny vines that held him prisoner, then reversed the weapon and fired. The

bullet removed a chunk of his skull, but the dying man was still breathing, his

single remaining eye staring wide in horror as the LAV was hauled below the

field and out of sight.

Somewhere below the rippling waves of green grass, there came a short ripping

noise of the electric cannon using its battery power to strike at the enemy one

last time. Then a deep and terrible silence engulfed the wooded area.

Dripping sweat, the corporal stayed where he was, trying to control his

breathing. Minutes passed, then an hour, before he decided to risk moving.

Climbing down the girders, he eased a boot to the ground and waited, ready to

instantly climb back into the maze of struts at the slightest sign of

disturbance. When nothing occurred, the sec man realized the mutie had to be

busy with its food and this was his chance to escape.

Gently lowering the other boot, he then took off at a run, grabbing a blaster

from the ground as he passed by, angling for the imagined safety of the forest.

The roots there should be too thick for the weird mutie to travel through. Rock

would be better, but he was a long distance from any real mountains. The forest

would do. He'd travel out of there by jumping from tree branch to tree branch if

necessary, until he was far away from this chilling zone.

Reaching the edge of the field, he leaped over a log and landed with a thump,

then froze motionless. Shit-fire, he'd made noise! Slow minutes passed while the

blue shirt waited for a reaction. A soft wind moved over the field and through

the trees' rustling leaves. The dish creaked slightly behind him, and a tiny

scorpion scuttled over his boot and under a flat rock.

Finally, the sec man relaxed and started to walk again. He had to be far enough

away from the mutie that it hadn't heard him. Good. Now all he had to do was

walk the three hundred miles back to Shiloh and his problems were over. He had

found a working dish! Then it occurred to the man that with the loss of the APC,

he might not be welcome in Shiloh anymore. Why not simply leave, head west and

become a mercie for some baron… No, once Sheffield got the Kite under control he

would take over the whole continent, and when he found the sole survivor of

Alpha team, the punishment he got as a deserter would be a lot worse than merely

being eaten alive by any mutie, that was damn sure.

Slinging his rifle, the corporal headed due south. He had a long way to go.

Hopefully, Beta team was doing better than his decimated group. They sure as

fucking hell couldn't be doing any worse! At least, he was safe. That was

something, anyway.

Unexpectedly, a humanoid figure holding a lance rose from the evergreen bushes

in front of the startled sec man. Frantically working the bolt of his borrowed

AK-47, the corporal swung the blaster around, then paused when he realized that

the weapon might not even be loaded. Black dust! He had ammo clips in the pouch

at his belt, but those might as well be on the moon for all the good they did

here.

Warily, the barb waited for the expected attack, watching for any opening when

he could throw the lance and dodge the deathfire of the tube machine. The

corporal put on a combat face and waited for the other man to throw, before

risking a shot. The bolt had worked, but that might only mean a single live

round remaining in the clip. If he missed, it was all over.

Weapons poised and ready, the two opponents stood amid the bushes, each unsure

of his next move.

Chapter Thirteen

Much too early, noise came from the mat-trans unit, and the three companions

drew their weapons in tense expectation.

"Already?" Jak said, cocking back the hammer on the Colt.

"Something's wrong," Mildred stated, taking a position along the wall near the

door. The gren felt heavy in her right hand, the smooth ring of the pin clenched

tight in her left.

"Sheffield?" Ryan asked from the doorway across the hall. The man was pale, but

his panga was unsheathed and ready. Behind him, J.B. stood with a grim

expression, his own knife held in a throwing grip-

Doc braced the LeMat on top of the console, the muzzle pointed straight at the

door. "We shall find out soon enough."

As the machinery went still, the companions heard a splash, then nothing else.

Going to the door, Doc threw it open and greenish water rushed out over his

boots.

"By the Three Kennedys!" he started, then saw his friends laying limply on the

floor. "Mildred, hurry!"

Rushing forward, the physician tucked away the gren and knelt in the puddle.

Grabbing Dean by the shoulders, she turned him over and pounded the boy on the

back. In response, he heaved out a stomach full of thin fluid. Mildred kept

hitting his back until some color returned to his face, and he began breathing

normally.

"Hot pipe," Dean said, coughing raggedly, then wiping his face with a dripping

sleeve. "We…made it…"

Immediately, Mildred went to Krysty and started beating her soundly between the

shoulder blades with an open palm. Her damp hair sluggishly flexing, Krysty

spewed out the contents of her stomach and shook off the physician, hacking for

air.

"What wrong?" Jak asked, helping the boy to stand.

"They're okay," Mildred announced, standing. "Just swallowed some bad water."

The words made Dean go to the corner and retch again, the thought of the rotting

corpses filling his mind.

"What is this?" Ryan asked, lifting a canvas bag from the mat-trans chamber.

Malodorous greenish water poured from a small rip in the side.

"Grabbed it as we went," the boy said, nibbing his stomach. "Better than

nothing."

"Anything useful?" J.B. asked without hope.

Ryan tugged the bag open and inspected the contents. "MRE packs," he said,

sounding pleased as he lifted one into view. "Being underwater wouldn't hurt

them a bit."

"How many are there?" Mildred asked,

He did a rough count riffling the packs with a fingertip. "About forty. Enough

for another week."

"Must have been field rations for a predark recce squad," J.B. guessed, running

a hand over the outside of the bag. Dimly, the faded green letters USMC could be

seen on the camou-colored material. "Bad for the Navy boys, good for us."

Lifting a pack, Doc inspected the foil for any holes or corrosion. "Looks

perfect, dear boy," he rumbled in delight, "Ah, never before have I so truly

yearned for the culinary delights of artificial creamed chip beef on canned

toast."

"Pentagon calls it shit on a shingle," Mildred said, smiling.

"Indeed, madam, but they could order out pizza and chicken wings. Ambrosia comes

in many flavors these days, some great, some on toast."

Frowning, Jak glanced around, "Hey, where blaster?"

"Dropped it," Dean said, then swallowed to clear his throat, "When we hit the

water after the second jump, I lost my grip."

"Second jump?" Ryan said, advancing. "You were only supposed to do one jump."

"Wasn't our choice. Something went wrong with the mat-trans," Krysty answered.

"After going to an empty redoubt we jumped and went to one underwater. We hit

the LD button and instead of returning to the empty redoubt came back here.

Thank Gaia."

Dean looked at her on the word "empty," but said nothing. It was close enough to

the truth.

"Dark night!" J.B. stormed, taking off his hat and crumpling it, "We're short

enough as it is without losing a blaster!"

"Into the control room," Doc ordered brusquely. "Some hot food will help all of

us think more clearly."

Leaving the chamber, the companions were startled when the door slammed shut

behind them and the noise of the mat trans rose and faded away.

"Son of a bitch! You don't think…" J.B. started, when the machinery came alive

once more.

As the noise faded away, a furious Ryan opened the chamber door and there was a

dripping wet Doc, sitting in an expanding puddle. He was drenched to the skin,

and his chest heaved for breath, but the missing Kalashnikov was held loosely in

his grip.

Rushing forward, a frowning Mildred slid a shoulder under his arm and helped Doc

shuffle from the chamber. "Damn fool stunt," she derided angrily. "Could have

chilled yourself doing a double jump that fast!"

"Needed the blaster," he mumbled weakly, struggling to smile. "Besides, I only…"

The words faded away as terror clouded his eyes, and Doc flinched as if struck a

savage blow. "No! Not into the pit with those animals! I swear I'll kill you,

Strasser! Gun you down like Oswald did JFK, like Ruby did Jack… you'll die

bloody like the Kennedy brothers…" His strength gone, Doc slumped and could only

whisper more wild threats.

"Hush," Mildred whispered, as the man slid into unconsciousness. She knew that

name. Ryan had rescued Doc from the evil clutches of Cort Strasser, sec chief to

the baron of Mocsin. The madman had been torturing Doc every day for an

indeterminate period of time, horrible things that made her feel unclean just to

hear, yet Doc had survived through sheer raw determination. He'd stayed alive

and mostly sane only by his iron-bound belief that someday he would return to

the Vermont of his past, and be reunited with his beloved wife, Emily. Other men

would have died or gone completely mad. Doc chose a different route and lived.

She admired him a lot more than she had ever told him.

"Tougher than nails," Jak stated, helping to carry the old man into the control

room and placing him in a chair. "Who those names he say?"

"Predark barons who got aced," Ryan said gruffly. "Good thing you're out, Doc,

or else I'd kick your skinny ass for a triple-stupe move like this."

"He did save the blaster, and it's undamaged," J.B. reported, wiping it dry with

a cloth. The Armorer dropped the clip, poured out some water and slapped in a

fresh magazine. "This'll work just fine. Mikhail Kalashnikov made a good

blaster."

"Better be right," Jak said, taking the longblaster and the spare clip. "Our

turn now."

"Keep them warm and get some hot tea down Krysty and Dean," Mildred directed

Ryan, taking the other longblaster. "And just let the old coot sleep it off."

"Shot of shine what need," Jak said knowingly. "I find, bring along."

"Blasters first," Ryan said, taking the Colt .45 and gun belt from the teenager.

"Good luck," J.B. added, belting on Doc's huge LeMat. Nodding, Mildred dropped

her med kit beside the door to the mat-trans chamber as Jak walked inside.

Following the teenager, she closed the door and soon the complex machines sang

their song and faded into silence.

Slow minutes ticked by in endless procession. Always a fast healer, Krysty got

to her feet first and fixed some hot coffee for the others. After a few sips,

Dean was feeling better and started to dig into an MRE pack, using the attached

plastic spoon to devour an envelope of corned-beef hash. Blasters cocked, Ryan

and J.B. waited patiently for the others to return, sipping the strong military

brew.

Crossing the control room, Krysty placed a cup of sweet coffee near the sleeping

Doc, then turned abruptly, her hair moving in short lashing movements.

"Something has happened," she said, walking toward the chamber door. "They're in

trouble. I can feel it."

"Malfunk with the machines?" Ryan asked gruffly. He knew Krysty could sometimes

sense things unseen, a talent that had saved their lives more than once. But the

ability was random, totally unreliable. Just when you needed it most, it went

away, which was why Ryan kept his faith in a good blaster. Steel was always

reliable.

"Mildred and Jak are fighting," she whispered, reaching for the closed door with

fingertips. "Large… no face…they're coming back!"

With those words, the comp monitors scrolled with commands and the hidden

machines revved with power.

The AK-47 held level, Ryan walked to the door and froze when he heard the

chatter of auto fire. Throwing open the portal, Ryan and J.B. charged in and

separated fast, their weapons searching for targets, but they only found Mildred

and Jak inside the chamber, smoking Kalashnikovs held in their hands. However,

their clothing was torn in places, and Jak was bleeding from a wound in the

shoulder. Spent brass was scattered on the floor, and Ryan realized they had to

have jumped while firing their weapons.

"What happened?" he demanded, hauling the woman to her feet. She clung to him

for support, panting for breath. "Changing mass in a jump might turn you inside

out!"

J.B. knelt and offered the teenager a canteen. "You two know better than to take

a risk like that."

"Had to," Jak said between sips, then splashed some on his bloody shoulder. He

winced, but didn't cry out.

"They were at the door," Mildred added. "Damn near came through with us!"

Just then, Krysty came in with the med kit, but Dean stayed in the doorway, a

gren in each hand.

"What was it, stickies?" Krysty asked, using a knife to cut open Jak's shirt and

exposing the shoulder. It was a flesh wound not very deep, just wide and

blistered. "That's laser damage."

"Sec droids," Ryan said, recognizing the blister pattern.

Taking a long pull on the canteen, Mildred nodded weakly. "In the armory. Soon

as we picked up some ammo boxes they came charging out of the shadows, firing

everywhere. Idiot machines destroyed more than we could ever have taken."

"Lucky you weren't chilled," Krysty stated, washing the area and tying on a

clean bandage. "Those things are hard to stop."

Ryan merely grunted, remembering when he had been chased across Deathlands by

one of the predark mechanical hunters. It was the closest he had ever come to

catching the long sleep.

"Stopped them," Jak grunted, gesturing at the mat-trans chamber. "Used thermite

grens on fuel stores. No redoubt left."

"Thermite!"

Eagerly, J.B. walked over and lifted the lumpy canvas bags to look inside. "Good

haul," he said in appreciation. "Additional MRE packs, some med supplies, half a

dozen thermite grens, a few AP grens, box of 12-gauge shotgun shells, two

Claymores, bottle of whiskey, two flares, full box of 9 mm APC rounds."

Ryan caught the box of ammo as J.B. went into the control room. Taking his S&W

shotgun from the corner, the man shoved a 12-gauge shell into the bottom slot

and worked the pump to feed in the cartridge. He did this three more times, then

filled the empty loops along the shoulder strap. When he was done, J.B.

distributed the remaining shells in several pockets.

Ryan was already at the main console, thumbing rounds into the empty clips for

the SIG-Sauer. As he filled each, he tucked them into the pouch on his belt,

then slapped the last clip into the butt of the hand-cannon and jacked the

slide.

"Better," he said.

"Any blasters?" Dean asked, as the rest of the companions entered the room.

Mildred scowled. "We never got close. Tried to lure the droids away and then

double back, but time was too short."

Studying his friends, Ryan made a command decision. "We're calling it a day," he

ordered in a no-nonsense tone. "Let's get some food and sleep. We can start

hunting for weapons again in a few hours."

"Dawn soon," Mildred said, glancing at her wrist chron. "Sleep sounds good."

Krysty started for the control room. Doc was still sprawled asleep in the chair,

snoring softly. "Thank Gaia we aren't in a rush," the redhead commented,

brushing some hair out of his tired face. "If Sheffield and his sec men left

this valley, we'd lose our back door."

"Be shit out of luck if that happens," Ryan stated, starting for the hallway.

"Come on, let's go eat."

SEARCHLIGHTS CUT through the Tennessee darkness, the bright rods of light

sweeping over the Shiloh ville to brightly illuminate each area in an orderly

pattern.

Walking patrol along the wide top of the stone block wall, a blue shirt studied

the weird landscape surrounding the ville. Not a blade of grass was in sight,

nor a tree or even a bush. Just the oddly flowing bed of gray rock. The ground

rose and fell in endless irregularities, the acid rain having solidified

windblown piles of ash into foamy rock harder than limestone. It was as if a

gray winter sea had been instantly frozen, catching the waves before they broke

upon the shore. He knew it made farming here impossible, and the sec men would

have to move to another location, but the thought neither pleased nor annoyed

him. It was just another chore to do for Sheffield, easier than some, harder

than most. Nothing special.

"Farmers," the guard muttered and lit a cig off a wooden match. Why would

anybody bust his ass to plow dirt, when a smart man got anything he wanted by

working for a baron? Being a sec man meant all the food he could eat, a soft

bed, clean clothes, women for sex whenever he wanted, and with these

Ackyfortysevens the blues could chill any invader. Personally, he didn't

understand what Sheffield and Collette needed with the dish and Kite. A blaster

in the hand was worth more than any predark sat.

Releasing a stream of white smoke, the sec man continued his patrol along the

top of the thick wall. He remembered starting life as a farmer until raiders hit

his town. In the midst of the fight, he saw the locals were losing and shifted

sides to stay alive. He opened the ville gates and helped hang his own family.

It didn't bother him. Civilians, what the hell good were they? All the tasty

food came from a can or an envelope. Raw stuff was crunchy and dirty. None of

that shit for him.

A movement amid the stony dunes caught the man's attention, and the guard slid

the blaster off his shoulder. His thumb slid along the side, making sure the

selector was set for full-auto.

He whistled softly, and another soldier stuck out his head from the kiosk at the

front gate. The wall guard jerked a thumb toward the outside, then across his

throat. Nodding, the private grabbed his blaster off a peg on the wall and

advanced carefully to the gate. The steel bars were less than six inches apart

and thicker than a soup can. Not even one of the APC wags could ram through the

barrier. Damn thing had taken sixty slaves to move into positions, and four died

hanging it on the massive hinges. Nobody could attack the ville from that

direction. Muties, however, would and could attack from anywhere, usually when

you least expected them.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of motion and the blue shirt fired from the hip,

the bullets hitting a scream-wing that was gliding straight for the gate. The

riddled corpse hit the bars and wiggled through before the blue could track his

weapon on the animal again. This time the stream of rounds tore it apart, and

the screamwing flopped on the green grass inside the ville, keening in pain, its

leathery wings beating feebly as its thin lifeblood flowed from the riddled

body.

When the thing finally went still, the sec man walked closer and shot it again

in the head, then stomped the screamwing under his boot until its body was only

a pulpy mass. Little fuckers were hard to chill, and often came back to bite

your ass when you were positive they had taken the last train west. Kicking the

dead mutie behind the wall, he jabbed it with a sharp stick and tossed its form

into an empty fifty-five gallon oil drum half full of similar corpses.

"Welcome to Shiloh," he snorted in wry amusement, then spun with a curse as a

loud explosion ripped apart the night.

A fireball was rising skyward by the gap in the wall, the searchlights moving

back and forth to focus on the chink in their perimeter. Sirens began to howl as

squads of sec men rushed to the area. As they neared, the blues could see that

the blast had cleared the hole of barbed wire for yards, the pungi sticks

sheared off at ground level.

"Nobody move!" a sergeant ordered loudly, snapping the bolt on a Kalashnikov.

"Wait for them!"

The men assumed a firing line just as a dozen humanoid muties shambled through

the smoky darkness, the things dripping drool down curved tusks in their

eagerness to reach the norms.

"Fire!" the sergeant shouted, cutting loose with a Kalashnikov at the grouped

creatures.

The first staggered and tried to dodge behind the predark Army tank that filled

the rest of the hole. Then the ground under its claws blossomed into fire as

another Claymore detonated, the explosion hurling the limp corpse skyward in

many grisly pieces. The concussion slapped the sec man like an invisible fist,

the shotgun rounds peppering the tank and stonework. Hoots of agony could be

heard in the billowing smoke, and the sec men fired short volleys seeking live

targets. More cries of pain announced success, then there was a sudden silence.

"Stupe things are trying the same trick as the last bunch!" the sergeant

growled, ramming in a fresh clip. "You, you and you, form a recce squad. Shoot

anything that moves!"

Grim-faced, the blue shirts checked their blasters and walked directly into the

smoky, bloody, chaos of the gap, the searchlights casting long shadows before

them. Soon there came the chatter of blasterfire, but the anguished screams that

followed were from norm throats, not the fanged muties. Then dozens of dark

shapes appeared from within the gloom and rushed for the astonished blues.

"Breakthrough!" the sergeant shouted at the top of his lungs, hosing the

Kalashnikov wildly as the horde of muties swarmed inside Shiloh ville.

"JUST HAD TO GET the stinking slime off me," Krysty said, padding barefoot from

the steamy shower. Wrapped in a towel, the beautiful redhead walked across the

officers' quarters to the pile of her freshly laundered clothing on a desk.

There was no reply, only a soft snore from Ryan who was sprawled on the bed. A

chair had been pulled beside the man, and a cocked blaster rested within easy

reach of his outstretched hand.

Patting herself dry, Krysty gazed at Ryan and smiled. He was the only real man

she had ever known, and she couldn't imagine life without him. They were more

than merely lovers, they were soul mates, two halves forming a greater whole.

Ryan had taken the opportunity to wash his own clothing along with hers and was

stretched naked on the bed, his muscular body covered to the waist by the thin

blankets. Scars of a dozen types marred his powerful body: the puckered iris of

a bullet hole, the zigzag of an arrowhead yanked loose, the smooth slash of a

knifeblade and irregular flat areas of white skin, the remnants of fire damage

and electrical shock—souvenirs from torture by sec men and barons he later aced.

Although strikingly attractive, Ryan wasn't handsome. But Krysty had seen

handsome before, and it usually masked evil underneath the smooth, easy smile.

Ryan was a warrior and a survivor, but more importantly, a man who hadn't fallen

from the grace of Gaia in the gore and fight for their survival. If possible,

Ryan would never kill again, but simply live in peace. It was an impossible

dream, but she knew he would never stop searching for some small corner of the

world to call home, where edible crops grew in clean soil, and people didn't

need to carry blasters every minute of the day and night. Truly an impossible

dream, but it was infinitely more than most dared to even hope for.

Dropping the towel, Krysty placed a slim knee on the mattress, and he came awake

instantly. There were no jerky movements or gasps of surprise, no outward signs

at all that anything had changed. But the woman knew he was fully awake now, had

already cataloged they were alone in the officers' barracks, and was listening

to her gentle breathing.

"Tired, lover?" she asked, sliding across the bed-sheet.

Turning over, Ryan glanced at the nude redhead sitting on the edge of the

military bed. He recognized the expression in her face, and the way her animated

hair was moving slowly about her face. She was the most beautiful woman he had

ever been with, and the deadliest. Ryan knew that he more than loved the woman.

There were no words that could adequately express what he felt for her, and to

try would only be an insult. When something like that occurred, both people

simply knew it all the way down to their bones. There were no questions, no

rules.

As she crawled toward the supine man, her full breasts swinging from the motion,

he immediately began to get hard under the blankets.

"Never that tired," he answered, pulling the covers away.

The redhead took his cock in both hands and gently stroked until he was fully

erect. Rising on an elbow, Ryan reached out for her, but Krysty pushed him down

again.

"Me this time," she said, straddling the man. He could feel the heat of her

pussy as she rubbed it against his shaft, the moisture and curly hair an

electric combination. Ryan ran his hands freely over her body as the woman

rubbed closer and harder against his shaft until deliciously engulfing it. The

hot confines of her tight pussy fueled his desire, then her special muscles

contracted in a swirling motion about his cock, lifting and caressing as she

moved back and forth, up and down, in a passionate rhythm. Only the sound of

their breathing filled the room for several minutes.

Gently, Ryan pulled her close, her full breasts falling warm and heavy across

his bare chest. They kissed, tongues intertwining madly, savoring the taste of

each other. Her red filaments laced with his black hair as the man and woman

shared breath, their hearts wildly pounding. Then Ryan grabbed her around the

waist, pinning Krysty in that position as he started pumping hard and fast,

using his thighs to drive his cock into her at greater and greater speeds.

"Gaia!" she gasped, biting a lip, galvanized by the overpowering sensations.

"Yes, lover! Yes!"

Their bodies gleaming with sweat, Ryan rode the woman from the bottom,

maintaining the motions until Krysty trembled all over, her pussy convulsing. He

thrust hard one last time, filling her completely, each lost in the sensual

world of physical pleasure, and for a few precious moments, there was no world

outside of their arms.

Back arched, hair splayed, Krysty waited for the tingling of the orgasm to pass

when there was a sound at the door. They both drew blasters and swung the

weapons toward the portal, then relaxed when they heard the telltale

step-and-click of Doc walking by, using his swordstick.

"Want to go eat now?" Krysty laughed softly, placing the blaster aside and

nestling against the big man's chest.

"Later," Ryan answered, rolling over and placing the woman on a clean area of

the bedsheets.

Lustfully, Krysty raked his back with her nails, as he spread her smooth legs

wide and slide inside the hot satin once more. Their bodies moving together as

one, each was lost in his or her own private world of joyful passion and

affection beyond the limitations of words.

SEVERAL LARGE-CALIBER machine guns fired nonstop, the burning tracer rounds

forming dotted lines through the nighttime sky over Shiloh ville as the rooftop

weapons cut down the muties crawling over the stone block wall in every

direction.

"They're everywhere!" a blue shirt shouted, running from the front gate. A mob

of muties was on the other side of the steel bars, reaching for him with claws

and tentacles. It was worse than any nightmare. He fired his blaster at the

inhuman creatures, and a few dropped, but others fought to get closer.

A winged mutie landed on top of the wall and was cut down by machine-gun fire,

the heavy rounds slamming the body back into the darkness.

Slinking from the gap was a pack of cougars, their fur changing color to match

anything they were near. Their fur was cut by the sharp coils of concertina

wire, droplets of clear blood oozing from the wounds. Snarling, they converged

on a sec man struggling to clear a jam in his blaster. Flesh was bitten off in

bloody gobbets, the high-pitched screaming only lasting a few moments as they

ate the man alive.

Then the roar of an engine split the night, and a Hummer charged into view,

plowing through the catlike muties, their bodies smashed against the steel

fenders with sickening crunches. One survived the attack, and leaped inside to

savage the driver. The blue dragged out a handcannon in time blow off its face.

Shoving the Hummer into gear, he sped away, leaving the other men behind.

Small-arms fire peppered the darkness, then the steady chatter of a

large-caliber machine gun ripped the attackers to pieces. Dozens of muties died,

but the rest spread throughout the base, hooting wildly as they latched upon

anybody who got close. Fangs were buried in throats, tongues licking up the hot

spurts of blood. The sec man fired from doorways, from between buildings. The

dead and the dying were lining the streets, but the muties kept coming, wave

after wave, in countless numbers. And as an ammo clip became exhausted, another

norm fell screaming to the ground as his flesh was consumed before his heart had

time to stop beating.

Inside the armory, sec men fired volleys through slim notches cut in the thick

walls. In the shadows of the night, it was difficult to tell their own men from

the muties, and often they didn't pause but fired anyway. Sometimes it was a

bestial scream, occasionally a human cry of pain.

"Sir, the fuckers are everywhere!" a sec man panted, thumbing fresh rounds into

an exhausted clip. He slammed the magazine into his weapon and worked the bolt,

chambering a round. Then he started to load a second clip. A case of 7.62 mm

ammo was at his boots, and two more full of grens were on the table for easy

access. The door was barricaded with the heavy oak throne, and the window

shutters closed for the storm were now nailed tight into place.

"Keep shooting," Sheffield snapped, opening a third case of grens. He cast aside

the wood slats and ripped off the protective plastic sheeting with bare hands.

"Any flamethrowers?" Collette asked, tossing more wood into the fireplace. The

flames licked high up the flue, and something nosily clawed away from the

flames.

"No," he spit angrily, stuffing his pockets full. "We used them up in the slave

revolt. Silas never had a chance to get any more fuel tanks."

"Shit! Anything in that Quonset hut except these rapidfires and MRE packs?

Another APC, or big whatyacallit?"

"M-60? How should I know?" he yelled in reply, going to a gun rack and taking

down an AK-47 with an elaborately carved stock. Sheffield inserted a clip and

pulled the arming bolt. "I have the inventory sheets, but haven't inspected

every fucking box yet!" Standing, the angry woman stared at the man in

disbelief. "Don't the sheets say what there is?"

Unexpectedly, one of the searchlights winked out, and darkness swallowed half

the ville.

"Most of it's in military codes, just a bunch of numbers," Baron Sheffield said,

going to a chink in the brick wall and chancing a glance outside. Nothing was

visible, but tiny flowers of fire winked in the blackness—muzzle-flashes of the

wall guards.

"No time for that shit now!" Collette cursed, as a strange dog darted between

the buildings. Shoving the stubby barrel of her Ingram subgun out a hole, she

sprayed lead at the passing creature. It toppled over, and something rose from

its back to scamper away by itself. What the fuck was that?

"Courtyard looks clear!" she said, easing off the trigger.

Cradling the longblaster, Sheffield grunted in reply but didn't relax. Why now?

The norms had been here for almost a year building the ville. Why all the

trouble now?

"More coming through!" a sec man announced, firing his weapon, short arcs of

brass flying into the air to tinkle musically on the cold stone floor. Outside,

a flock of screamwings had descended on the bodies of the slain and were loudly

feasting.

Switching to single shot, Collette steadily fired the Ingram with lethal

accuracy. Each slug took a mutie in the head, skulls exploding, brains

splattering outward in a grisly display.

"This has got to be the ash," she said, dropping the clip and ramming in a fresh

magazine. "There's no more food around here, but us."

"Fuckers eat each other," a corporal pointed out. "But only after we ace them!"

Outside, the sounds of blasterfire were becoming infrequent, the human screams

sounding constantly, as more indescribable things moved past the armory.

Cursing bitterly, Sheffield shoved a Kalashnikov out a hole and sprayed the

darkness. Triple-damn Silas and his lust for revenge. "Soon as the scouts report

a usable site we're gone!" he stated, spraying a deadly wreath of bullets into

the shambling humanoid mockeries. Bodies fell, but a few in the rear struggled

to rise once more. He fired again, emptying the clip, and they dropped

permanently.

As he reloaded, the man reflected that it almost seemed as if the second group

had been using the first to test the defenses. Could that be? No, that was utter

crap. He had once heard of a smart mutie that led an army against the norms of

some ville, but that was only a campfire story. Something to frighten sluts and

babes. Smart muties. Never happen. This was just a bunch of starving animals,

nothing more.

"We got to use the Kite!" Collette raged, fumbling for a fresh clip and finding

none. Hastily, she began to load one of the empties on the floor from the pile

of loose ammo.

"Can't!" he shot back. "I just tested it a while ago. I'm unable to focus it

again for hours!"

"We'll never last that long!" a sec man shouted over the chatter of a

Kalashnikov.

"We can inside the blockhouse," Sheffield stated, suddenly sounding calm. "The

walls are thicker, the door solid iron."

"Sounds good, my lord," a sergeant replied, but then motioned his head toward

the barricaded door. "But how do we get there alive across a hundred yards of

open ground?"

The burned bodies of muties who had tried to climb the electric fence that

surrounded the armory were a smoking pile on the ground. But there was also a

hole in the barrier, and a giant cougar prowled along the brick buildings

searching for any opening.

"We cut a deal with the muties," Sheffield said, slinging the longblaster and

drawing his handcannon. "Get the kitchen staff."

Collette blanched. "You're going to arm the slaves?"

"Get them!" he roared, spittle flying. "Now!" A sergeant grabbed a couple of

privates and rushed into the back rooms of the armory. Moments later, the blues

herded a collection of slaves wearing aprons into the throne room, mostly

whitehairs and a few children learning the tricks of cooking for a hundred men

at a meal.

"Cripple them," the baron ordered and began to shoot the slaves in the knee.

The men and women fell helpless to the floor, screaming in pain, their legs

destroyed forever.

"Muties like their meat alive," he said, dragging the weeping cook to the front

door and throwing the bolt. "Okay, let's give them a meal!"

Shoving the wounded outside, the sec men bolted the door closed again. The

crying slaves stood in the darkness, looking around in wide-eyed fear. Then the

cougar approached and the humans hobbled away in a panic, trampling one another

in a frantic bid for life. The giant cat fell on the whitehairs, ripping them

apart, blood going everywhere.

While the beast was busy eating, Sheffield led the rush out of the armory, the

blues carrying every box of ammo they could. Darting through the hole in the

electric fence, the blues shot their way across the compound, using the grens to

blow a thunderous path through the carnage until they reached the base of the

towering dish.

Sheffield unlocked the door, and the blues piled into the concrete bunker.

"Now what?" a sec man asked.

Heading for a control panel, the baron flipped some switches and grabbed a

microphone. "This is Baron Sheffield," he said softly, the words booming outside

over the PA system. "Wound the slaves and cut them loose. Let the muties eat

them, and get to the blockhouse now! We lock the door in five minutes!"

Soon, squads of blue shuts began to arrive at the blockhouse, hideous screams

cutting the night as the crippled slaves were caught by the hungry muties. An

old slave wearing a dirty blue shirt tried to sneak inside the bunker, but

Collette caught him at the door and stabbed the whitehair in the belly, then

kicked him away from the structure. Clutching his wounded stomach, the slave

hobbled away into the savage night.

"Time," the baron said, glancing at a wall chron. "Lock it."

The four heavy bolts were thrown and a cross bar dropped into place across the

iron door. The noise level from outside lowered immediately. Taking a chair at

the control panel, Sheffield sighed in relief, glad that he had decided to

reinforce the bunker after the revolt. The man only wished he had done more,

maybe lined the outside walls with Claymores, or something, but who could have

foreseen a mass attack by starving muties?

"Going to need more slaves after this," a sec man gripped, hugging his

longblaster.

"How many made it here?" a sergeant demanded, looking over the assemblage of

troops. The bunker was large, but the crowd seemed nowhere near large enough.

"I counted fifty coming in," Collette answered brusquely. "We lost half our

guys."

"Better than losing all," a private stated.

"When the muties are finished, they'll try to get inside to us," Sheffield

warned. "Try real hard. We just have to hope the door is strong enough to last

until the Kite comes back on-line."

"How much longer, sir?" a lieutenant asked, licking dry lips.

Sheffield looked at the wall chron. "Another hour."

Suddenly, something large slammed into the locked door, rattling the hinges and

bolts. Leveling their weapons, the blues retreated from the portal and braced

themselves for a pitched battle inside the confines of the bunker.

Chapter Fourteen

A red dawn dispatched the night above North Carolina, and the sec men of Beta

team shuffled from the doorway of the overturned dish, yawning and fixing their

clothing.

"Now that's why I became a sec man," a private told his comrades as he rubbed

his stubbly chin. "Damn near wore myself to a nub."

"All you had in the first place," another chided.

"Fuck you!"

"Not with what you got, stumpy."

"Shut up," Sergeant Campbell ordered, pulling up his suspenders. The night had

been long and one of the best in memory. Farmer women lasted a lot longer than

slave girls. The man almost felt sorry about capping the bitch he had been

riding. She had cried, but they all did that. But this one used his name, and

most didn't even know it. That had unnerved him a lot. The sec man didn't like

that feeling, so he shot her twice just to make sure.

"Any coffee?" Campbell shouted into the still air, startling a flock of birds

covering the corpses of the men.

"Didn't think we'd eat here," a sec man said, wrinkling his nose.

The sergeant was forced to agree. The stink of the rotting bodies was strong.

The birds and bugs eating the flesh hadn't helped reduce the reek, only made it

stronger.

"Okay, saddle up and let's ride," he commanded, checking the magazine in his

blaster.

As the sleepy men stumbled into the rear of the APC, Campbell brushed back his

wild crop of hair and walked over to the bearskin on the side of the wag.

"Curing nicely," he said, running a hand over the hide. "I want you men pissing

on it more. Going to need a good coat come winter."

A sec man slammed shut the left door as the driver started the big diesels.

"What about Collette?"

Campbell climbed inside and took a wall seat. "Screw her. Going to keep it for

me. Head north, Sam. And where's the bastard coffee?"

The driver shifted into gear and the LAV-25 rolled out of the hamlet, leaving

behind the dead and a rich harvest of spent brass scattered across the bloody

ground.

The LAV rolled through the fields and into the woods beyond while a private

passed out the MRE packs and another warmed water over a small fire inside a tin

bucket, the smoke wafting along the roof and out a series of air vents. Designed

for cig smoke, the vents worked just fine for the tiny cookfire. "How much

farther?" Campbell asked. "Sarge?" the driver asked, confused. "How much farther

to the next dish, asshole?" Quickly, the driver checked a map taped to the

armored wall. "About sixty miles," he answered, working the steering levers.

"Say, two hours. With good ground, mebbe less."

"Good. Hey, you! That water hot yet? Then give me a cup."

Breakfast was brief, and Campbell was dry shaving with a Bowie knife when the

vehicle passed the ruins of a fishing hamlet beside a raging river of

white-water. The destruction of the flimsy structures was absolute, way beyond

anything needed to merely gain entrance. Worse, there were no bodies.

"What could've done that?" a blue asked, working the bolt on his Kalashnikov.

"River muties?"

"Don't know. Better bolt the hatch," the sergeant commanded in reply, and

unsnapped the flap that covered his handcannon.

Just then something erupted from the river in a geyser of foamy water. Wings

flapping, the creature streaked over the smashed kindling and slammed onto the

side of the wag. Claws raked the metal, trying to reach the men inside. A black

muzzle was shoved to an air vent, and a forked tongue jabbed a good three feet

into the wag. The mutie howled in frustration and crawled over the vehicle,

searching for a way into the strange egg.

A sec man cut loose with an AK-47 through a blasterport, but the river mutie had

already gone under the wag. Suddenly, the belly hatch slammed open and the thing

crawled into the transport. A taloned hand slashed at a sec man, who dived out

of the way. Another man slammed the stock of his AK-47 into the thing's snarling

face, and a third kicked over the tin bucket, fire and boiling water covering

the beast.

Keening in pain, the mutie went mad, claws slashing open the seat cushions and a

box of ammo, precious rounds rattling across the floor in every direction.

Tripping on the loose ammo, the rest of the sec men scrambled for their

blasters, while Campbell knelt and discharged the Colt at point-blank range. The

blaster's muzzle-flame extended to touch the beast he was so close. Incredibly,

the first round missed, ricocheting off the belly hatch and out of the wag.

Riveting its attention his way, the beast reached out and grabbed Campbell by

the boot.

"Rad me!" the blue shirt shouted, planting his other boot in the mutie's throat

to keep from being dragged any closer, and emptied the blaster at the scaly

invader. The .45 slugs blew chunks off the creature's head, and still it tried

to haul him out of the wag, the grip on his boot tightening to a painful level.

Dropping the spent clip, Campbell tried to slap in a fresh mag when the APC hit

a bump and the clip went flying. The sergeant threw the blaster at the bleeding

mutie and drew his Bowie knife. No stinking mutie was getting him alive!

Then a sec man jumped onto the belly hatch, slamming the armored slab onto the

beast, knocking it sideways. Partially trapped, it released the sergeant and

fought for its own freedom, screaming and thrashing like a demon from hell. Now

they could see the gaping, lipless mouth in the palm of each clawed hand.

"Ready, set, go!" a sec man shouted, and pulled the hatch out of the way. In

unison, the rest of the blues hosed the beast with their Kalashnikovs, the

barrage of 7.62 mm rounds tearing its body apart, black blood spraying onto the

walls. Cut to pieces, the mutie screeched and dropped out of sight. Instantly,

the wag bumped a few times as the rear wheels crunched over the riddled body,

ending the high-pitched yells of pain permanently.

"Bolt that hatch!" Campbell sputtered in rage, retrieving his blaster from the

sticky floor. "Bolt every hatch!"

"Freeze," a sec man whispered, and swung his blaster at the sergeant. Before

Campbell could react, the man fired a short burst, black blood gushing from the

side of his boot.

Weapon in hand, Campbell stopped in the act of squeezing the trigger when he

realized he wasn't hurt. Bending, he saw there was some sort of leathery sack

attached to the side of his predark Army boot It was torn apart by the AK-47,

but little squiggling things dangled from the base, dripping thick viscous

fluid.

"Some sort of egg," he growled, cutting it off with his knife. Then he scraped

the residue off the blade with the sole of his boot and ground it flat on the

rough metal floor. "Shit-faced little bastard must squirt out eggs when it's

about to chill. I heard tell of a mutie down Mex way that did that."

"Cockroaches, too," a sec man added, grabbing a ceiling stanchion against

another lurch of the wag. Throughout the whole fight, the driver hadn't stopped

or even slowed. Probably just too damn frightened to decide.

Struggling to his feet, Campbell sat down again. "Okay, I want this freaking wag

checked from top to bottom! You assholes miss an egg, and we're in deep shit, so

don't fuck up!"

Over the next hour, the blues looked hard for any more of the black lumps,

checking every nook and crevice inside the wag from under the dashboard to the

speakers of the radio, and even inside the barrel of the 25 mm cannon. They

found nothing.

"We're clean," a man said with a sigh, slumping into a wall seat. "Black dust,

that was a nasty bastard. Sure hope it was a solo. Pack of those could chill an

army of blues."

"Shut up," Campbell growled, gingerly massaging his throbbing ankle. It hurt

inside, and he was frightened it was more than just a sprain. "And somebody make

more coffee!"

WAY OUT OF SIGHT under the wag, attached to the armor flange, safe behind a

wheel assembly, was a small leathery lump coated with a mucouslike substance.

Speckled with tiny dots of black blood, the sphere pulsated steadily as it

absorbed the excess heat radiating from the big diesel engines, growing larger

and heavier by the minute.

WALKING HIS tired animal, Baron Henderson slowly proceeded down the predark

street through the maze of ruins that surrounded Green Cove ville, the rising

sun casting a reddish light over the skyscrapers and office buildings. The man

felt as if he were being watched from a hundred different locations, and quite

possibly he was, just not necessarily from the outer guards of the ville. Rats

scurried underfoot. He had heard of outlanders who preferred to live in the

ruins and warned the ville of approaching enemies to get a reward of the

supplies when the invaders were chilled. The defensive weapons of Green Cove

were as mysterious as they were known to be deadly. Henderson assumed it was

merely some sort of poison gas, or snipers with silenced longblasters. But the

local sec men would surely have nothing to fear from a lone rider.

The Casanova sec men who had escaped death at Front Royal with the baron had

proved less than enthusiastic about his new plan, and so had been set free from

his service. The former baron was wearing their blasters and was dressed in

their patched clothing, his fine suit of silk thrown into the bushes. Henderson

had washed in a creek that morning to cut the smell, since he no longer had

access to perfume. His infamous box of jolt and snuff was hidden in the hollow

of a tree a few miles farther into the forest. It had been the supreme

sacrifice, but revenge was worth any price.

Chewing on a piece of jerky, Henderson walked his stallion down the exact middle

of the road, so that nobody could possibly think he was trying to sneak toward

the ville. Gaining the trust of Baron Armand DuQuene was of primary importance

at this stage of the negotiations. Afterward, things would rapidly change, but

that time hadn't yet come. This day, Henderson was all smiles and brotherhood.

The ruins stopped abruptly, and the high walls of the ville rose from the

rubble-strewed streets and yards. The debris made it damn near impossible for

coldhearts to charge at the ville through all of the wreckage and rubble.

Rusty strips of metal, railroad tracks, led to a large metal-bound door on the

north side, and to the south a river flowed through a thick metal grillework.

The main gate was fronted by concrete road dividers, again making it tough for

enemies to swiftly reach the ville. The door itself was a solid array of barbed

arrowheads so tightly packed it was impossible to tell if the material

underneath was wood or iron, or whatever.

Composed of bricks and cinder blocks combined in a random pattern, the walls of

the ville rose fifteen feet skyward. Armed with shotguns, sec men stood guard

behind the top, while wooden towers rose tall within the city, more sec man

watching the wall and the ruins beyond with binocs.

Again, Henderson was impressed, although he kept the feelings from his face.

This was a fine ville, well designed and built. Tough for any invader to attack.

He trembled with anticipation to make it his.

The wall guards were tracking him by now. Henderson stopped well away from the

front gate and stepped off his horse, keeping a grip on the reins. To the best

of their knowledge, he was just a whitehair solo coming to trade or beg.

"What do you want?" a voice barked from the ground.

Caught by surprise, Henderson now saw there was a tiny man-sized door in the

main gates. Standing there was a huge bald sec man dressed in old clothes and

sporting a homemade scattergun.

"Morning," he said, smiling as he walked closer. "I am Baron Henderson of

Casanova ville and need to speak with Baron DuQuene immediately. Fetch him."

The sec man threw back his head and guffawed. A few more on the walls also

laughed, and Henderson had to fight to keep from drawing a blaster and chilling

the fools.

"You have a choice, boy!" he boomed, allowing a fraction of his true feelings to

show through. "I am either a harmless crazy or Baron Henderson with important

news for DuQuene! So choose well, ass! It could mean the total destruction of

your fucking rad pit of a ville!"

The hairless guard stopped laughing and cocked back the hammers on his crude

blaster. "Or you're a shammer, trying to trick us," he growled, pointing the

barrels directly at Henderson. "Trying to trick us out of food or ammo. Should

chill you now."

"Do it!" the baron raged, sneering openly at the man. "You are obviously too

stupe to deserve to live! Do it, I command you!"

His face contorted in rage, the guard aimed the blaster and braced himself

against the recoil of the colossal homemade.

"Nobody commands anything here but me," a new voice said, and the huge gates

swung open wide, exposing a second wall of spiked wooden beams. That imposing

barrier was raised out of sight to the sound of squeaking pulleys, and Baron

Armand DuQuene strode out, flanked by a squad of sec man armed with bolt-action

longblasters. Aside from the baron himself, all of the men were shaved bald,

making them appear nearly identical. The sec men marched in step around their

baron, the blasters gleaming with polish. Henderson admired their precision and

couldn't wait until they were his bodyguards.

Baron Armand DuQuene was a huge man, with a dense mane of red hair flowing onto

his wide shoulders, a matching mustache and beard covering most of his features.

He was dressed as casually as the troops and carried two handcannons, the

weapons reversed in their holsters, the butts sticking toward the front. A

jagged scar sliced across his face and down his neck, a thin white streak in the

redbeard growing over the ancient wound.

"My lord, I—" the gate guard started, but the baron cut him off with a wave.

"How interesting. A baron riding alone, without any sec men," DuQuene said as an

opener, hooking a thumb into his gun belt. The man and his guards stayed well

within the array of concrete dividers, even though they outmanned and outgunned

the lone whitehair. "But I know your face. Your ville is to the east and north

of here. Castle Nova, or something like that."

"It was called Casanova," Henderson corrected him, stroking the muzzle of his

mount to quiet its nerves. "Not anymore."

"Changed the name, eh?" He shrugged. "It's a baron's choice to call his home

anything he likes. What happened to your guards, plague?"

The wall gunners grew tense and worked the bolts on their weapons. The

assortment of deadly diseases that had swept the world after skydark were mostly

gone these days, but outbreaks of the black cough, or blood fever still

occurred. The only cure was to burn everything and run for the horizon. Now the

old man noticed that more than a few of the bald men on the wall had lifted into

view glass bottles filled with brownish liquid. Rags had been stuffed into the

openings. In horror, Henderson realized they were getting ready to firebomb him

out of existence.

"I didn't change the name," Henderson explained, controlling his raging temper.

"It's gone, the whole bastard ville is gone."

The sec men murmured in surprise but didn't lower the Molotovs or blasters.

"Muties?" DuQuene asked, frowning. It was a natural question. With any major

trouble, a person always checked for muties first. The animals were the worst.

They sometimes were so bizarre looking a person didn't know what part to shoot

at until it was too late. Eagles with tentacles, jellyfish that leaped from

trees, and it was getting worse all the time.

"Not muties, or coldhearts, or a wildfire," Henderson stated calmly over his

whinnying horse. "It was melted. Melted like candle wax by a sky machine."

"What brand of hot horseshit are you trying to sell?" the red giant scoffed in

amusement. "There aren't any more sats. Everybody knows that."

"Then everybody is wrong," Henderson snarled, releasing the stallion and walking

dangerously closer. "My ville, and everybody inside it, was reduced to smoke in

a matter of seconds by some predark weapon operated by Front Royal!"

More murmurs rose from the crowd of guards, disbelief openly battling with raw

fear. Henderson had been counting on this. The common hatred of technology ran

deep in people these days. Science had smashed the world, giving them muties,

terrible diseases, and a host of other deadly things aside from the acid rain

and rads pits. Even simple machines like wags were viewed with suspicion by many

folks, and the very word "sat" made even hardened sec men recoil. There was no

known defense against an orbiting sat aside from not being there when it cut

loose. Of course, Henderson had no proof it really was a sat that destroyed his

ville, but that was the word he had chosen to strike terror in their hearts. And

who knew, maybe it was a predark sat. Stranger things had happened.

"You saying Nathan Cawdor can talk to a sat?" DuQuene asked, looking upward.

Then he burst into laughter. "I have heard some tall tales before, but this is

the best. Cawdor doesn't even have a war wag with armor, but you're telling me

that now he got a sat?"

"Yes!"

The baron of Green Cove ville turned away. "Stop wasting my time. Guards, take

his goods and whip him into the forest. Goodbye, Henderson."

"And what if I'm right?" the baron hastily asked as the sec men approached.

Halfway through the gate, Baron DuQuene paused to glance over a shoulder. "Never

give up, do you?" he snorted.

"And what if I am right?" Henderson repeated, feeling his heart pound inside his

chest. "What are you going to do when the top of the ville starts to grow hot,

then the walls soften and melt, the molten stone flowing over your screaming

people, burning them into blackened bones. What will you do then? Cry?

Apologize? You asshole, you don't deserve to be the baron of a latrine!"

The guards growled hatefully and shifted the grips on their blasters, obviously

eager to chill the old man.

Baron DuQuene stared hard at the man standing alone but unafraid before the

gates of his ville. Henderson was known as a ruthless deviant, a sexual pervert,

and worse, a jolt addict, but if his story was true, then the bastard had

information vital to the safety of his ville. And what could one lone man do?

Slaughter his troops and take over? That was a laugh.

"And you can stop the sat, I suppose?" DuQuene scowled.

"No," Henderson replied honestly, "but we can kill the man who controls it. With

him gone, it's useless."

"Cawdor has never bothered me. Why should I take your word?"

"Don't. I could be lying," Henderson said quickly, feeling the fleeting taste of

success on each word. He was close now, so very close.

"Send some troops to recce my ville. When they return, then we can talk about

how to save your ville. And my price," he added in a flash of brilliance. Nobody

gave anything away free. He cursed himself a fool for not thinking of that

earlier.

The baron turned and talked with a tall thin sec man. From the man's lack of

hair, clothing and stance, Henderson guessed he was the sec chief. The chief

wore a wheelgun in a shoulder rig, and some sort of weird blaster strapped to

his thigh. The barrel was enormous, twice the size of a shotgun. The stock was

new wood, still green in spots, the barrel bound with iron wire as

reinforcement. Henderson knew that trick. Heat the iron red hot, then wrap it

tight around a weak blaster barrel. When it cooled, it got tight and helped old

blasters work for years longer. That weapon had obviously seen long and hard

service. Maybe it launched a rocket, or it could be a flare rifle. Henderson

once owned a flare pistol. Whatever the thing was, he had no wish to face the

business end, and he marked the chief as the first man to die in the revolution.

"As the baron of Green Cove," DuQuene began loudly, "I always have to consider

any potential threats to my people. This could merely be a trick to get inside.

If it is, you'll hang from a rope with crows pecking out your eyes until we

shoot you out of boredom."

Beaming a smile, Henderson said, "And if what I say is true?"

"We'll discuss your reward later inside," DuQuene growled. "Get his horse, take

his blasters and any jolt you find."

"If he resists, chill him," the sec chief said in a raspy voice, as if just

risen from a grave.

Henderson allowed himself to be stripped of all weapons, secretly smiling about

the bamboo tube of jolt shoved up his ass where few sec men dared to search. He

was inside. Now for the second part of his plan.

ORBITING HIGH above Earth, a beautiful black butterfly floated along peacefully

in space. The analogy was quite exact, as the inventor of the microwave Kite,

Professor Paul Glaser, had collected butterflies as a child and deliberately

incorporated the beauty of nature into the orbiting power plant. With a smile,

he had always referred to the lovely satellites as Monarchs. But the rest of the

predark world soon called the feared machines by the hated designation of Kites.

Miles wide, the graceful wings of the Kite were composed of innumerable tiny

glass squares, efficient solar cells that converted the raw solar light falling

on them into direct current. The trickle of power flowed into superconductor

cables, becoming a stream of electricity that was boosted with a step-up

transformer into a raging torrent of power that was converted into safe and

harmless microwaves to beam down to Earth.

Originally, the Kite was designed to only emit low-frequency, nonlethal, EM

waves that would cascade unnoticed to huge fields of rectennas in the deserts

and above the junkyards of North America, the specially treated wire catching

and condensing the invisible waves of power, easily convert it into simple

electricity to run factories and cities. Once established in its orbit, a Kite

would provide limitless, clean power for millions of homes.

Most were destroyed by the hunter/killer sats in the aftermath of skydark. Only

a lone Kite remained intact and functioning, floating serenely above the ravaged

world.

However, the focus of the microwave beamer had been drastically changed under

the austere genius of Silas Jamaisvous, the safeties neutralized, the power grid

connected directly to the mighty busbars, and the EM frequency boosted to its

highest setting.

Far below the sat, an unseen dish antenna sent coded signals to the machine, and

the controls inside the war sat blinked wildly as new commands flooded its

master comp. Tiny retro rockets of elemental boron hissed briefly, subtly

changing the direction of the silvery cone at the bottom of the Kite.

Transformers hummed, its external lights dimmed, and an invisible stiletto of

power stabbed through the murky atmosphere, volatizing the heavy layer of

polluted clouds until a strange blue could be seen from the Tennessee valley

below. Winging through the sky, birds and screamwings burst into flames and

plummeted from the deadly air.

Smeared with blood and gore, the feasting muties in the Shiloh ville paused in

their gorging to scratch at their skin from the millions of pinpricks stabbing

every inch of their bodies. The pain rapidly increased to intolerable levels and

the creatures hooted and snarled in agony, blindly clawing at their dead-white

eyes. Some tried to run away, others attempted to burrow into the rocky soil,

still others sought refuge inside the brick buildings of the two-legs, but

nothing helped. Hair burst into flames, skin cracked open, blood flowed from the

seared flesh. Dizzy and dying, unable to even comprehend what was destroying

them, the insane muties foamed at the mouth and attacked one another, only to

weaken and limply topple over, steam hissing from every orifice as their twisted

bodies cooked solid.

A clean wind blew over the military ville, and the shrieks of the animals were

quickly followed by heavy silence.

MINUTES PASSED into an hour, then two hours before the battered door to the

bunker was opened and a sec man held out a hand, testing the air before daring

to leave the safety of the armored room.

"All clear," he reported with a sigh.

"Yeah, we know," a sergeant said. "You're still alive."

A scowling Baron Sheffield strode from the bunker, Collette at his side. The

base was dotted with chewed corpses, smashed machines, dropped weapons and

countless steaming bodies. A few of the muties twitched feebly on the hot

ground, their limbs moving as if possessed with a life of their own. The blues

started shooting the muties, and Collette shouted for them to cease.

"Get some sledgehammers," she commanded. "No sense wasting ammo on stationary

targets."

Shouldering their longblasters, the weary sec men moved in squads to the Quonset

hut to get the required tools. At the door, a lieutenant placed his hand on a

glowing pad and the door slid aside with the hiss of compressed air.

"Shitfire, we lost every slave with this attack," Sheffield raged, walking among

the dead. "You there, Major! I want that fucking gap filled with anything

that'll fit! Block that hole or I'll use your corpse! Use a Hummer and get

rubble from the quarry to block that hole completely."

The officer saluted and rushed to the task. Overhead the sky was still a clear

blue, but a ring of storm clouds was rushing in, the iris of darkness closing

above the walled ville. High in the sky, winged creatures were beginning to

circle the Shiloh base, many with enormous wingspans and multiple heads. The

smell of the spilled blood and cooked meat drew the aerial scavengers like a

insect to a searchlight.

"Bastard Kite seems to attract muties," Sheffield grumbled, lighting a cig. "An

unforeseen side effect."

"Anything we can do about that, my lord?" a sergeant asked warily.

Collette rested the hot barrel of her blaster against a cheek, savoring the

brief sting of pain. "Yeah," she replied. "Stop using it to defend ourselves

from simple muties."

"Sec Chief Hogan, have the men prepare to leave the base," Sheffield said

abruptly. "It's impossible to stay here anymore."

The use of her last name startled the woman, and it took her a moment to react.

"Keep the hammer lifted, Baron," she said soothingly. "We can't leave. The recce

teams haven't found another dish yet. Soon enough we'll leave this rad pit and

start taking over the East Coast baronies one by one. And then all of them!"

"Fuck it," the baron puffed, watching the men dispatch the assortment of animals

on the ground with grisly thumps. "We have to leave, or the next wave of muties

will get us for sure. We can seize some small ville, and stay there until

finding another dish. But we leave in the morning. That's an order."

"Sir, the slaves are dead," a lieutenant said hesitantly, "and the men are

completely exhausted."

"I don't fucking care!" the baron roared, casting away the cig. "Feed them jolt,

use a whip, but we leave tomorrow at dawn!"

The officer saluted. "Yes, my lord."

Sheffield merely grunted in reply, his mind on the closing storm clouds overhead

and circling muties above.

IN SPACE, the Kite resumed control over its comps once more and began a

diagnostic check. Floating peacefully in orbit, the machine began once more to

store the trickle of electricity from its great solar wings in giant

accumulators, patiently waiting for its next order.

Chapter Fifteen

"Wait!" Mildred cried, rushing into the control room.

The companions turned as a group, pulling blasters from their clothing and

cocking back hammers.

"Something wrong?" Ryan asked bluntly. Squinting, the one-eyed warrior tried to

look past the physician to see if she was being chased by anything.

"We…we're out of time," the physician said breathlessly. "I…" She paused to

swallow. "I decided to check the outside, using the periscope, just to keep

track of how it was going."

"Ash storm still raging, madam?" Doc asked, holstering the LeMat.

Mildred frowned. "God, I wish it was. The valley outside is flat rock. I think

there was an acid rain, and it mixed with the ash making a kind of concrete."

"So?" Dean asked, unconcerned.

"Fireblast," Ryan growled, thumbing the safety back on the SIG-Sauer. "Sheffield

and his troops will be moving soon. Have to."

"No cover for the ville," Krysty said in understanding. "It's in plain sight

now."

"Worse," J.B. stated grimly. "They'll soon be running out of food."

Rubbing a fist into his palm, Ryan nodded. "Silas must have left behind a

stockpile of supplies, but even the blues need farmers and hunters for most of

their food."

"Nothing will grow out there," Mildred said. "And there's not a leaf of grass

for the local animals to eat."

"Eat each other," Jak said. "Then the blues."

"The more muties attack," Dean said, chewing a lip, "the more they'll be alert

and ready for trouble. It's going to make it triple hard for us to nightcreep

them now."

"And now we're racing against the clock," Doc rumbled pensively. "Sheffield will

know all of this better than us, and could move the computers and his troops to

another location any hour of the day or night."

"They move, and we lose our back door into their base!"

"Exactly."

"Shit!"

"So we hit them tonight," Ryan ordered. "Trader always used to say, folks were

at their weakest just before a move."

"Sheffield will be low on wall guards because he'll have to send out scouts,"

Krysty agreed. "And a lot of their ammo will be packed away for the journey

where they can't reach it fast."

Glancing at the mat-trans door, Ryan didn't speak for a moment as he mentally

reviewed their meager collection of armament.

"Okay, this is the last jump," he stated. "Tonight, we use the tunnel to reach

the quarry and hit the blues."

"But not at midnight," Dean piped in. '"Cause that's when most folks attack. We

wait another hour, and then go in. Never do the expected."

"You're learning," his father said with pride.

"We got enough plastique?" Mildred asked pointedly.

"Barely," J.B. replied, resting a hand on the bag of explosives sitting on the

control console. "We sure as shit could use another couple of pounds. Every

ounce helps at this point."

"Then let's move," Ryan said, and, sliding the Kalashnikov over a shoulder, he

walked into the chamber. Once J.B. was seated on the floor, Ryan closed the

heavy door and quickly joined his old friend, both patiently waiting for the

artificial mists to tear their bodies into subatomic particles and throw them

once more into the electronic abyss.

BRAKING THE HUMMER close to the hillock, Collette and a sec man stepped from the

wag and quickly drew their weapons.

"Sons of bitches," the private growled hatefully.

"Fire!" the woman barked, and the two cut loose with their rapidfires at the

mutie dogs savaging the human corpses on the smooth ground. Startled, the beasts

snarled and slavered at the loud noises as they were torn to pieces trying to

protect the meat on the ground. The few survivors scampered away over the swells

of rock.

Walking closer, the sec men kicked over a tattered body still wearing the rags

of a blue shirt. "Rad me, it's Quinn," he cursed. "A cousin of mine from the

Shens. Poor bastard."

Collette stared at the face and body of the other corpse. The man was old, with

almost no clothing, and shackles still circled his skinny ankles. It was the old

slave sent to work the keypad of the door to the redoubt.

"Strange," she said softly, touching the corpse and lifting a broken rib bone

into the headlights of the Hummer. "These men weren't aced by the muties. Some

sort of blast did this damage."

"An explosion?" The sec man gazed at their Hummer. "Fuel tanks still there, and

I don't see any gren holes anywhere. What could have blown up?"

Looking around, Collette soon spied the culprit. Laying in the grass, covered

with blood and chewed intestines, was the butt and twisted frame of a predark

pistol. Where the metal wasn't burned or shattered, the chrome finish was still

mirror shiny.

"I know this weapon," Collette said hesitantly, studying the butt. She spit on

the remains of the weapon and wiped the gore on her pants. "Yes, see here. This

weird logo on the grip. The blaster is from something called the Anthill. This

used to belong to Silas!"

"Dr. Jamaisvous?" the sec man said, scratching his head. "Yeah, I sort of

remember him having a shiny blaster on his bed table. After he got chilled, we

never found it in his rooms. Figured somebody stole it."

"And why didn't you report a missing wep?" Collette said in a low and dangerous

tone.

Nervous under her stern gaze, the blue got formal. "We informed the baron, Sec

Chief Hogan. It would be his decision to tell you, or not."

"True enough," she relented, harboring her anger for a more suitable target. Why

hadn't Sheffield mentioned it? Was he hiding some plan from her again?

Curiously, the sec man glanced around at the smooth featureless ground. "No way

it could have been in the Hummer," he stated. "Wonder where the whitehair found

the blaster?"

Collette snapped her head toward the hill. "Inside the hill," she muttered,

feeling a sudden surge of excitement more powerful than any sex. "The slave

found the entry code, got inside and found Silas's trick gun."

"What do you mean 'trick'?" the sec man asked, confused.

Ignoring the question, the woman rushed to the black door and ran her hands

across its marred expanse, then looked down and found a crumpled mass of paper.

Kneeling, she smoothed out the printed sheets. The first eighteen pages had

pencil lines drawn through the number-letter combinations. Going on a hunch, she

tapped in the first line not crossed out. Nothing happened.

"Smart little fucker," Collette growled in grudging admiration. "The slave found

the code and waited for the right time before attacking." Which meant that

somewhere within these eighteen pages was the code to enter the predark redoubt.

That would give her access to the jump chamber Sheffield had recently told her

about, which would be her key away from him and complete freedom. No longer

would she have to suck cock to stay alive. She would soon be in charge. If there

were any weapon stores inside the redoubt, she could raise an army and take

control of the dish from Sheffield. Using the Kite to burn herself more than a

ville, or a dozen villes, Collette could become the first emperor of the New

America. Everything she ever wanted was waiting behind that black metal door,

and the key lay in her hand.

She'd been told that the mat-trans chamber inside the Quonset hut had been

sealed in some manner by Silas before he died. Nobody could open the door to the

chamber but the old man, and only then after he had placed his face to a hole in

the console and let a red light play over his left eye. Sheffield had planned on

stealing the eye and sealing it in a jar of alcohol to keep it fresh. But then

that bastard Ryan had fried the whitecoat to a crisp and ruined the plan. Now

their only hope of gaining access to a mat-trans unit was through the locked

door of this redoubt. It was maddening that the blues had a gateway inside their

ville, and couldn't use the chamber.

"Big door," the blue shirt commented, ambling over. "What is it? Some sort of

bomb shelter?"

With a word, Collette worked the bolt on her Ingram and turned. Before the sec

man could react, she stitched him with a long burst, the copper-jacketed rounds

tearing the man apart until he resembled the partially eaten bodies on the cold,

smooth ground.

Easing off the trigger, Collette turned to the keypad and began to tap in the

first code. She waited, then did the second, then the third. Her anger rose, but

she fought it under control. Clearly, this would take some time.

RYAN AND J.B. braced themselves for a surge of weakness, or nausea, but neither

occurred.

"Bout fucking time we had an easy jump," Ryan growled.

"It was a short jump," J.B. said, "which means we're still close to Shiloh."

Reaching out, Ryan touched the wall. "This isn't armaglass," he stated. "Wonder

where the hell we are?"

Looking around, the men noted they were in a small chamber with plastic walls

painted a military green to waist height, then a dull navy gray to the ceiling.

However, this clearly wasn't a redoubt, but a simple gateway, a mat-trans

chamber set outside the subterranean predark fortifications. They had

encountered a couple of homemade gateways, which always meant big trouble.

Checking their weapons, Ryan and J.B. braced themselves and swung open the door.

Both fought back a gasp of surprise.

"Dark night," J.B. whispered, grinning widely. "It's payday."

Ryan wholeheartedly agreed. Stepping out the door, the men could see the gateway

was situated inside some sort of huge warehouse, with curved walls and a sharply

arched roof, as if a tin can had been cut in two and placed sideways on the

ground.

"This is a Quonset hut," Ryan said, studying the distant windows. The glass, or

Plexiglas, was frosted white, so there was no way to see outside. The warehouse

could be in the middle of a Deathlands desert, underwater, or on the moon. There

was no way of telling.

But much more importantly, the entire interior of the structure was jammed to

the rafters with military supplies, neat rows of shelving filled with med kits,

MRE cartons, satchel charges and endless cardboard boxes of ammo. Huge mounds of

crates were stacked along the sloping walls, hundreds of drums of condensed fuel

piled conveniently near a small door, and pallets full of tents, bedrolls and

huge rolls of concertina wire were everywhere, along with tightly coiled belts

of 25 mm shells for APC cannons, .50-caliber bullets for heavy machine guns,

long crates full of AK-47 and M-60 blasters and backpacks for carrying LAW

rocket launchers. The men had never seen such an incredible collection of

weapons like this level since the deadly Alaska redoubt.

"Let's get busy," J.B. said eagerly, shouldering his Uzi and starting down the

main aisle.

A forklift was parked in the near distance, obviously used to move the heavier

pallets, and it was perfect for their needs. Then a movement at the extreme end

of the aisle caught their attention and both men ducked out of sight, but it was

too late.

"Hey, who the fuck are you guys?" a distant sec man called out, dropping a

clipboard and clawing for the blaster on his hip.

In one smooth motion, Ryan stood, drew the SIG-Sauer and fired. The silenced

automatic coughed once, the 9 mm round slamming the sec man backward. He fell

sprawling onto an open trunk full of 125 mm AP shells for the main cannon of an

Abrams M-l tank.

"Fireblast, a blue!" Ryan cursed. "This must be the Quonset hut I saw in the

middle of their base!"

"Then we better haul ass," J.B. answered, releasing the pistol-grip safety of

his Uzi. "The sooner we're gone, the better."

Rushing to a nearby stack, Ryan grabbed a box and used it to prop open the

gateway door. Nimbly, J.B. climbed over some coils of electrical cable and into

the forklift. The engine started with a purr, and he maneuvered the vehicle to

an empty wooden pallet.

"I'll drive, you pile on the goods," he said, trimming the engine and glancing

at his wrist chron. "We got seventeen more minutes."

Working fast, the companions started down the main aisle, Ryan slamming entire

boxes of Kalash-nikovs and ammo boxes onto the pallet. A crate of mixed grens

was added, and as they turned a corner, Ryan grabbed a field surgery med kit and

a bag of mixed detonators and timing pencils. Next, he added two satchel charges

of C-4, then tossed another to J.B., who made the catch and slung it over an

arm.

Most of the material had no descriptions or invoice listings as to the contents,

but that didn't matter. One of the first things Ryan learned was how to read

military code numbers. Often he didn't even have to read the entire sequence

before he knew it was something useful, like food or ammo, or predark crap, like

paper clips or uniform rank insignia.

"Grab that," J.B. directed, pointing to the left. "And we need that, too!"

Lifting a combo pack of LAW/HALFA rockets, Ryan dropped the missiles and drew

his blaster in a smooth, lightning-fast move to fire twice more into the

shadows. A sec man fell into the light, with most of his face removed.

"Eight minutes," J.B. reported, grabbing a brand-new can opener off a nearby

shelf. There were flashlights on a higher shelf, but they were out of reach

without a lot of cumbersome climbing.

"We stay four more," Ryan stated, "then we leave."

"Gotcha."

Pausing at a door, Ryan noted there was a glowing plate set into the wall

nearby, exactly like in the more secure rooms of a redoubt. He wasted seconds

debating over a quick recce outside, then finally decided against it and moved

onward, grabbing a flare gun and box of flares, then a box marked miscellaneous

socks. If time had been on their side, the companions would have looted the

warehouse down to the floorboards. Silas had to have been compiling these

supplies for decades.

"Time," J.B. announced, and wheeled the heavily ladened forklift toward the

gateway.

Ryan grabbed small items off the shelves as he approached the gateway, and two

men were almost there when the small door at the end of aisle hissed aside and

in stormed a squad of blues led by Sheffield.

"God of the atom, it's Ryan!" the baron screamed, pointing with his golden

blaster. "Chill them!"

"Ram the door!" Ryan ordered, ducking behind a crate of MRE packs, and cutting

loose with the Ka-lashnikov, sending the blue shirts scurrying for cover.

Instantly, he realized he was at a major advantage. The blues only had wall

behind them, so Ryan could shoot with totally immunity. But he and J.B. were

surrounded by ordnance and fuel. If the blues hit the wrong thing, the entire

Quonset hut would vanish in a megaton fireball explosion of cordite and plas.

Comprehending what the big man meant, J.B. floored the accelerator and slammed

the forklift directly into the open doorway of the gateway. In wild tumbling

chaos, most of the boxes and crates flew off the pallet and into the mat-trans

chamber. His chest aching from hitting the steering wheel, J.B. turned in the

seat and added the fury of his Uzi submachine gun to the retreat, giving Ryan

protective cover as the man darted from box to crate, then behind the forklift

and literally dived into the gateway.

Incoming bullets flying all around them, Ryan took over shooting at the blues,

emptying the clip in seconds, while J.B. frantically threw supplies into the

chamber. Then the friends shifted jobs again, Ryan moving the supplies while

J.B. discharged the S&W shotgun. The distance was too great to make the

scat-tergun effective against the blues, but the rain of double-aught steel

pellets forced them back into hiding.

Grabbing a sack of grens, Ryan held one out to J.B. so the Armorer could see the

safety pin was firmly in place. J.B. nodded, and the two began throwing the

deadly bombs wildly into the warehouse.

Shouting warnings, Sheffield and the sec man scrambled to reach the exit.

Tossing the half-filled bag into the chamber, Ryan and J.B. each grabbed one

more item from the stack of supplies still on the fork-lift, then slammed shut

the door to the gateway.

With pounding hearts, the two men waited for the swirling mists to engulf them,

or for the chamber door to swing open again and for them to be brutally cut down

by a hail of bullets from the hated blues…

REACHING A RILL in the forest, the LAV-25 of Beta team drove along the woodsy

embankment until spying the sprawling ruins of a predark city in the river

valley below. To their right was a large flat expanse that sloped inward to a

small lake of fused glass.

"Mininuke," Campbell growled, and looked at the dashboard of the APC. Set off

prominently by itself was a rad counter, but the red lightbulb wasn't flashing,

and no ticks came from the tiny speaker.

"Clean." He sighed.

"If that's working," a private muttered, spooning hash from a MRE envelope.

"Hey!" the gunner called down. "Ville!"

The driver killed the LAV's engines, and the sergeant quickly climbed into the

turret with the binocs. This was their last chance at finding a dish. However, a

nice ville for Sheffield to move them to would do a lot toward appeasing his

anger.

Campbell adjusted the focus until the walls of the ville came in sharp. The

ville was situated right in the middle of the ruins, and from that angle the

sergeant could see how certain streets had been blocked with rubble, forming a

maze around the ville. Unless they knew it was there, coldhearts would simply

drive right past the place.

Its walls were the usual mix of whatever was handy, but good and thick, rising

twice the height of a man. Inside were rows of houses and huts, all heavily

repaired but looking rainproof. Armed sec men walked the walls, with watchtowers

set inside the ville to give support fire in case of a successful breech. Damn,

this pesthole was well designed. But aside from the defenses, the ville was like

any other— civilians walking about talking and doing things, while some wretch

hung from a gallow's noose with birds eating his skin. Near a tavern, a couple

of bald sec men were having a fistfight in the mud, while an old man across the

street was boiling laundry in a bathtub. A crude still was cooking shine over by

the barracks, and Campbell guessed the building held a couple of dozen sec men,

but that was it. A young busty female butcher was gutting a hog tied upside down

to the limb of a tree. Some sluts were hanging their tits out the windows of a

gaudy house, trolling for customers. Nice.

The ville looked perfectly normal, except for a fenced enclosure that was filled

with rows of long huts whose roofs had been removed and replaced with hundreds

of tiny panes of glass. Inside the glass houses were growing plants, a couple of

sec men standing guard while workers pulled weeds and tilled the dark soil.

"Fifty, mebbe sixty men," Campbell said to the blues down below. "Got three

wags, one up on blocks getting repaired. Sec men got longblasters, but

bolt-actions, no rapidfires. Civilians carrying homemades. No slave quarters

that I can see."

"Don't like it," the blue shirt muttered. "Too peaceful."

A private blew his nose on his hand and wiped it off on his shirt. "You want us

to do a recce? Couple of us could walk to the gate and say we're traders. Give

us a handful of ammo and we'll buy some food, lose at dice, talk to the sluts."

"You've done this before," Campbell stated as a fact, narrowing his eyes to mere

slits. "Coldheart?"

The man shrugged in a noncommittal manner. "Raided a few villes out west, if

that's what you mean. But I work for Sheffield now. As long as he's got blasters

and ammo, I stay loyal."

"Which means you keep sucking air," the sergeant retorted hotly. "So watch your

mouth about the boss. It's Baron Sheffield, shitface, and don't you forget

again."

"Yeah, sure," the private replied calmly. "Anything you say, noble sir."

As smooth and silent as a snake, Campbell lowered the binocs and started to draw

his blaster.

"Hey, look over there!" the driver shouted, pointed to the north. "It's a dish!"

Eagerly the men crowded the ob slits, so Campbell stepped outside and walked to

the edge of the cliff.

Sure enough, there smack dab on top of one of the crumbling skyscrapers was a

nest of dish antennas, each no more than a yard wide.

"I found it, Sarge!" the driver boasted proudly, joining him on the edge of the

rill.

Campbell slapped the man on the back side of the head. "You're dumber than a

crap sandwich," he snapped. "Those little things are much too small. We need a

dish big as the one back home."

"Like that monster over there," a private said, prone in the dirt and looking to

the west, cupped hands shading his vision from the sun's glare.

Without much hope, Campbell trained his binocs on the indicated area and saw

only jungle, heavy infestations of leafy vines crisscrossing the whitewater

river in a dense canopy of greenery. Only the occasional silvery flash indicated

water was underneath the covering.

Dropping to the ground, the sergeant could now see under the vines and spotted

an intact blockhouse sitting on a small island in the middle of the flowing

water. The struts and columns were completely engulfed with leafy vines, past

the tops of the trees. Then the dish erupted into view, even larger than the one

back in Tennessee.

Holding his breath, Campbell watched as a bird landed on the dish, then launched

itself into the sky once more. "Solid as a rock," he announced happily,

unconsciously wiggling his boots. "Hot damn, we really found one, boys. And no

mistakes this time!"

"That river's going be a bitch to cross," a sec man said. "Probably need to

build a bridge to run the power cables and shit."

Standing, Campbell dusted himself off and tucked away the binocs. "Not our

problem. We found the fucker and a rich ville right alongside. Time to go back."

"Sure hope we beat Alpha team," a sec man stated, thinking of the lush reward

waiting for them. "Can't wait to start guarding all that pussy!"

"And I hope Brandon got eaten alive," Campbell retorted hotly. "Never did like

that butt licker. Sam, how long for us to get back?"

The driver cocked his head in thought. "Be there by dawn tomorrow. If the juice

holds, that is. We're pretty low."

"Then strip the wag," Campbell ordered. "Leave everything but one meal of food

and half the ammo. We'll make a tent of tree branches to hide the stuff for when

we return. That'll cut our weight and give us enough juice to reach Shiloh."

"What are we going to do about Front Royal?" a private asked. "It's only a

hundred miles to the north. Damn big, too. Three, mebbe four hundred folks.

Plus, sec men."

"Mutie shit," a private replied. "Ain't never been a ville that big in history

of the world."

"Baron Sheffield will melt that down to bedrock first thing," the driver stated.

"Not going to do that here, is he?" another sec man asked nervous, glancing at

the sky.

Campbell snorted a laugh. "Hell no," the sergeant replied. "Sheffield is going

to do a lot worse to Front Royal than just chill them all. A hell of a lot

worse."

AS THE TWINKLING LIGHTS inside the swirling mists faded, the door to the chamber

was thrown open and the rest of the companions rushed inside.

"You okay?" Krysty asked hurriedly, bolstering the Colt.

"No damage," J.B. said, fingering a hole in his shirt where a bullet had come

within a hair of blowing off his arm. "Nothing serious, that is."

"Sweet Jesus," Mildred gasped, staring at the piles of supplies and ammunition.

"Looks like you hit the jackpot."

"And Sheffield, too," Ryan said. "Doc, don't let that door close! The blues

could be right behind us."

Stepping forward quickly, Doc took a stance blocking the jamb with his body. "We

are safe now, my dear Ryan. They can not follow you with the door askew," he

stated. "And after thirty minutes, Baron Sheffield will not be able to track you

at all."

"Hopefully," Krysty stated. "But we'll jam the door open just in case. Silas

could operate the mat-trans units in ways we'll never fully comprehend.

Sheffield may know some way to extend the thirty-minute window."

Dean hauled a crate of canned goods to the door, and Doc stepped out of the way

as the boy chocked the portal open to its absolute widest.

"Sheffield," Jak said thoughtfully. "You go Shiloh?"

Wiping off the sweatband inside his hat, J.B. nodded. "We jumped smack into

their warehouse. Stole everything we could before the blues arrived in force."

"Send back satchel charge," the teenager suggested, then he frowned. "Forgot,

twenty minutes. Shit."

Ryan understood the complaint. If two groups tried to use a mat-trans chamber at

the same moment, there would be a twenty-minute gap between arrivals. That could

work in their favor, or against. It was just too big a risk to take at the

present.

"Gaia be praised!" Krysty exclaimed, lifting a LAW tube into view. "There's

enough MRE packs for a month, a ton of ammo, grens, Claymore mines… Hey, Doc!"

The silver-haired gentlemen turned from inspecting a satchel charge of C-4

plastique. "Yes?" he said politely.

The redhead lifted a cardboard box into view. "Primer caps, black powder,

wadding and miniballs. It's for a .45 caliber, though."

"I can easily adapt." Doc smiled, weighting the carton in his hand. "My, my,

fifty rounds! It has been quite a while since I last possessed such a plethora

of ammunition."

"Here," Mildred said, offering the men a canteen, and they both drank their

fill. "And take these. I found some aspirin in the med kit. Haven't seen one of

those since the Anthill."

"Thanks," Ryan said, wiping his mouth on a sleeve.

"Here, Millie," J.B. said. Digging into a pocket, he unearthed a small cardboard

box and passed it over. "For you."

The physician took the box and slid it open. It was full of .38 solid steel

Maxim Express rounds. Immediately, she began loading her empty ZKR target

pistol. J.B. had gone out of his way to get those for her. In her skilled hands,

that slim blaster was more deadly than a barrage of predark rockets. What he

could do with explosives, Mildred did with her handgun.

"Let's haul the supplies out of here," Ryan stated, lifting a crate of grens to

his chest and stepping around the military jumble covering the floor. "We have a

lot to do before we hit the blues tonight."

"We going to recce first?" Dean asked, hauling a pack of six LAW rocket

launchers to his back.

"Nightcreep," Jak stated, sliding a knife from its sheath and testing the edge

of a thumb.

"Mass slaughter," J.B. corrected him, carrying a box of Claymore mines into the

control room. "Now here's the plan…"

Chapter Sixteen

The predark office building rose five full stories above Green Cove ville in

Virginia. It had been much taller originally, until the shock wave of a nuke

blast that annihilated a coastal Navy base sheered it off clean at the fifth

floor. However, the nameless structure was still the highest building in the

ville, proudly dominating the crumbling ruins outside and the dense forest

beyond.

Sec men stood guard on top of the structure, smoking cigs and walking patrol

around the towering building. From that vantage point, they could see everything

in the ville, down the river to The White Ear of God, and over the high rill to

the grasslands of the south. There had been reports of outlanders sneaking

through the bush toward the ville, but no sign of invaders had been found by a

recce team. However, Baron DuQuene had still ordered an increase in the patrols

and even a roof watch. It seemed pointless to the troopers, but a lot better

than walking the wall, or standing guard in the dungeon where the prisoners

wailed and begged to be killed instead of being slowly tortured for their petty

crimes.

The lower levels of the building housed the workshops of the ville, looms to

make clothing from dog hair, a potter's kiln and wood shop to make spoons, combs

and other useful items. The first floor was the barracks of the sec men, and the

top floor the private rooms of the baron and his family. The windows were

boarded shut with thick planks, inside and outside. There was no way for a

mercie to sneak in for a night-creep without using the stairs and going past a

score of armed guards. So far, three assassins had tried, and each failed

miserably.

In the middle of the baron's floor was a spacious ballroom decorated with velvet

wallpaper and large mirrors, which made the room seem even bigger than it truly

was. Clusters of alcohol lanterns hung from the ceiling above a huge circular

banquet table that filled most of the balkoom, yet the center of the round table

was wide open, leaving enough space for a dozen people to dance without bumping

the wood and rattling dishes.

Drinking and talking, the baron and senior sec men of Green Cove ville were

discussing battle plans while lunch was being served by a bevy of young,

half-naked, serving girls, their budding breasts scarred from splattering

grease. As the servants brought heaping platters to the table, the two barons

would fondle each in turn and discuss her merits with cruel exactness. Trying

not to cry from the pain of the pinches, the girls would smile in return and

thank the men for the compliments.

Standing in the corner where he could keep a watch on everything was the sec

chief, Seaton Crane. The bony man was sitting in an armless chair, with his back

to the stone wall, an oversized blaster resting in his lap. Henderson knew that

with a word from the baron, he would be shot dead on the spot. Oddly, the danger

excited him and found little urge to sneak a dose of the jolt hidden up his ass.

Maybe this was what he had been needing all those decades, a sense of danger to

keep up his interest. How amusing that would be to discover at this stage of

life.

The two barons were seated near each other for the sake of conversation, DuQuene

with armed guards standing behind his chair and seated on either side. Henderson

had the same, but his entourage seemed oddly uninterested in the meal and merely

watched the visitor very closely. Henderson accepted the scrutiny as a logical

precaution. In similar circumstances, he would have placed the visitor in

chains. Their mistake.

Henderson felt uncomfortable in his freshly washed clothes, his hair still damp

and soapy from a hot bath. But this wasn't his ville yet, and he needed to get

on the good side of the local baron as quickly as possible. People put such

stock into bathing. It was ridiculous. Animals didn't bath, why should humans?

The food was barely adequate by his standards, but there was plenty and it was

decently hot. There was the expected communal bowl of stew, a mainstay in any

ville, and the meat tasted more like squirrel than rat or dog. That was a

pleasant change. However, there were also several heaping platters of fried

fish, with the heads still attached, some local crap about it improving the

flavor. It was repugnant. They washed, but ate fish heads. Where was the logic

in that?

Loaves of fresh acorn bread lay on wooden boards to keep the heat, along with

small dishes of honey, but no butter. Henderson knew the ville had goats. Why

weren't the servants milking the animals? Didn't they know how? It was pathetic.

These people desperately needed him to take over. The only thing he liked about

the banquet hall was the three skulls on the table for decorations. Those would

stay.

Scattered about the circle of wood were small bowls of salt, but none of pepper.

Pity. Uncaring of the layer of hot grease, the sec men used bare hands to take

servings of fried corn-mush cakes. Henderson took a small one and fed it to one

of the many dogs laying under the table, probably for just such a reason. The

single bright note was a heaping bowl full of stewed dandelion leaves. Merely

being polite, he tried a leaf and was stunned to discover the weeds were

delicious. There was water and green beer to drink, barely fermented and tasting

strongly of wheat. Didn't these idiots know how to plant rye? Probably not.

"Is the food to your liking, Baron?" a sec man asked with his mouth full, a

partially chewed fish head peeking out from between his lips.

Henderson finished chewing some fried mush before answering. It was as tough as

fried shoe, and almost as tasty, but he smiled and speared another piece with

his fork, transferring it to his plate for dissection before the long and

arduous process of consumption. They could patch holes in the roof with these

things. Simply horrid.

"Best I've ever had," he said with a smile. "Pity there are no onions. Always

loved the things."

"Onions?" DuQuene asked, as if never hearing the word before. "That's servant

food. Onions and fish guts."

The sec men laughed at the witticism and pounded the table to encourage their

baron for another.

Henderson damned them all for idiots. Trying not to scowl, the whitehair baron

pushed away his plate and took a sip from his mug. "Oh no, my dear friend, food

fit for a baron! Dice the onions, dip them in beer, roll them in breadcrumbs and

fry them in fat. Utterly delicious and very healthy. Good for the blood."

"Yes, well, we'll have to try that sometime," DuQuene said in a manner

indicating that Deathlands would become a lush green jungle before that

happened.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the hallway leading to the banquet hall, and

the sec men stationed along the walls drew weapons and filled the doorway with

their bodies. There were some shouted words, and the guards quickly parted to

admit a panting sec man covered with road dust and a strong reek of horse.

"My lord! I have just returned from Casanova," he exploded in a single breath.

"And the story the old pervert tells is true!"

Henderson narrowed his eyes at the words, but said nothing. There would be

plenty of time for retribution later, but the scout just went to the top of his

shit list.

"His ville was melted?" DuQuene demanded, arching an eyebrow.

The man nodded excitedly. "Yes, my lord. The area is flat stone with bits of

huts and bones sticking out, and still warm to the touch! It's true!"

The sec men muttered among themselves at the pronouncement, and most drained

their mugs, eyes full of worried thoughts. Seaton made no reaction to the dire

news, the sec chief as calm and cool as a winter corpse.

"So it's real," Baron DuQuene muttered, putting aside his knife and fork.

"Of course," Henderson replied softly.

"Wine!" DuQuene said, snapping his fingers. "We need a toast for our valued

guest and adviser in the coming war on Front Royal."

The young girls scurried aside as an adult woman hurried into the dining hall

with a silver tray bearing goblets and dark bottles. Inspecting the wine as it

was placed on the table, Henderson saw in dismay that the cork wasn't flared and

knew this was no predark vintage, just some damn local brew. Gods of the atom

help him survive another meal with these barbs. Raw pig with cannies couldn't be

worse then this horrid slop.

"Splendid idea," Henderson beamed in a calculated fashion. "My pleasure."

The servant opened each bottle and filled the crystal goblets, painstakingly

careful not to spill a single drop.

"To the death of Nathan Cawdor!" a sec man exclaimed, raising his goblet and

sloshing some wine on the table.

Henderson smiled and reached for his own glass when there was a shattering crash

at the window. Everybody turned and saw a screamwing partially impaled on the

wooden splinters of a plank, halfway into the room. The leathery mutie shrieked

and struggled, tiny rivulets of blood trickling down to the floor.

"Fucking hell!" Seaton cursed, and, bolstering his large blaster, drew a

wheelgun and fired. The slug plowed through the winged animal, blowing its head

out its ass. The wings fluttered wildly for a moment, then the mutilated body

plummeted out of sight into the ville below.

"Damn things are always attacking the windows," Baron DuQuene said, bolstering

his own blaster and sitting again. "We have no idea why."

"Cracks," Henderson explained.

"What was that?" the baron snapped, glowering at the man.

"Cracks, openings between the wood planks," the whitehair explained slowly. "The

light from the lanterns must sparkle off the glass, making the muties think it's

water underneath."

"And we're the fish? How very amusing," the baron stated.

Only to you, half-brain, Henderson shot back mentally. Lifting his glass, the

old baron then paused in the realization that his attention had been off the

goblet during the whole screamwing incident. Could it have all been a trick?

Glancing casually over the sparkling rim of his drink, Henderson saw DuQuene

sniffing hesitantly at his own goblet.

"We have a small problem here," the baron said. "I, ah, think the wine has

turned bad. Fresh wine, woman!"

"At once, my lord," the servant replied and raced from the room.

"No need for that," Henderson said, drawing the bowl of fruit closer. He poured

the apples and pears onto the floor, the fruit rolling about randomly. Then he

poured his drink into the bowl and pushed it toward the other baron. DuQuene did

the same, then lifted the bowl and poured half of the combined wine back into

his goblet. Henderson finished the process and they clinked glasses.

"To victory!" DuQuene said without rancor, taking a drink.

"Death to our enemies," Henderson replied with a smile, releasing his grip on

the .44 derringer hidden in his jacket.

A SOFT WIND BLEW over Shiloh ville, as Sheffield stood outside the Quonset hut

and watched through the open doorway at the team of sec men smashing the

delicate gateway with sledgehammers. As men carried the pieces outside, a

sergeant cut each into even smaller segments with an acetylene cutting torch.

Privates would load wheelbarrows with the debris and cart the material across

the compound, through the southern gate, then dump the trash over the cliff into

the abandoned stone quarry.

Sheffield still couldn't believe that Ryan and one of his sec men still lived

and raided the warehouse right in the middle of his ville. In broad daylight!

With Silas dead, this was all of the predark supplies Sheffield would ever have.

Luckily, Ryan wasn't as smart as Sheffield had been led to believe and had

thrown grens without priming them first. Triple-stupe. And Ryan was supposed to

be the son of a baron. Ha! Son of slack-jawed mutie was more like it.

Cheering sounded from the distance, and Sheffield whirled with a hand on his

blaster just in time to see a battered LAV-25 roll through the front gate and

into the Shiloh base. The vehicle parked near the blockhouse, and the baron

started to walk that way. Four of its eight tires were missing, the body armor

was scorched, the Plexiglas cracked, but a smiling sergeant stood in the open

turret of the wag, waving at the other blues and beaming as if he had just

invented fucking.

The war wag pulled to a halt directly before the baron, and the sergeant ducked

inside the turret to climb out the back along with a handful of men.

"Well?" Sheffield demanded impatiently. They were smiling and happy, but that

could mean anything. "Did you find a dish? Answer me!"

"It was a bitch of a trip, sir," Campbell said, giving a salute. "You wouldn't

believe what we—"

"Well!" Sheffield roared.

Campbell's smile faded and he saluted again, with a bit more of a snap. "Sir!

Success, my lord!" the sergeant shouted. "We found a dish. Complete and intact.

Right near a juicy ville just waiting to be taken."

"Piece of cake, sir," a private added with a grin.

Sheffield crossed his arms. "You've been gone too long for it to be in Georgia,

or Carolina. Was it Front Royal?"

"Green Cove ville, sir. In Virginia, near the river and the rill."

"Better," the baron said, a wan smile playing across his tired face. He had been

looking forward to melting Front Royal down around the ears of Nathan Cawdor. If

he couldn't chill Ryan, then his nephew would have to pay for the man's crimes.

Blood for blood—that was the first rule of Deathlands. Never forgive and never

forget.

"You did well, men," Sheffield said loudly. "Go wash and get some hot food.

You'll be the point men for our convoy on the return trip out there tomorrow

morning."

His feelings of elation fading, Campbell blinked at the news. "That soon, my

lord?"

Sheffield turned away to look over the assemblage of sec men. "Even sooner would

be better," he said bluntly, then found the man he wanted. "You there,

Lieutenant Harris!"

Busy congratulating the Beta team blues, the sec man stopped shaking their hands

and hurried to the baron. "Yes, my lord?" he asked, saluting and clicking his

boot heels.

"How are the preparations for our departure?"

"We can leave anytime, sir."

"Excellent. Any word from Collette yet?"

The officer hesitated, then plowed on. "I sent a recce team to check, what with

her and Dickson being gone for so long." He swallowed. "They found only bones,

dead muties and burned wreckage. Wild dogs got them."

"Four bodies, two hummers?" the baron pressed, a sudden feeling of dread welling

from within.

"Impossible to say, my lord. The mutants had been feasting, and the wreckage of

the explosion was thrown all over the area. The ammo must have cooked off from

the fire."

"Mebbe," Sheffield muttered. Unless the slave had found the entry code and that

bitch Collette was now inside the redoubt. It was a chance he had been forced to

take, and it might have bitten him in the ass. Shit-fire! He never should have

trusted the traitorous bitch.

"Get a squad to the boilers and start stoking the fire," the baron decided

aloud. "I want maximum steam as soon as possible. Hopefully before nightfall."

"Yes, my lord!"

"And triple the wall guards," Sheffield added almost as an afterthought. "Just

in case."

"More muties?" the sec man asked, worried.

"If we're lucky," Sheffield growled, heading for the control room in the

blockhouse at the base of the dish.

THEIR MEAL OVER, the baron of Green Cove ville and his men had adjourned to the

war room to plot the attack on Front Royal. Racks of longblasters lined three of

the walls, along with spears, swords, longbows and quivers of arrows, while

hand-drawn maps of the area adorned the fourth wall. The baron and his troops

studied the plastic sheet carefully. Meanwhile, Baron Henderson was sketching on

a tabletop with a piece of charcoal.

"The drawbridge is here, not there, as your maps say," he stated, drawing neat

square figures on the smooth wood. "There is a hill back here perfect for

launching an attack, but it's a trap. They have some sort of secret chamber in

the trees, possibly a tunnel, and can release those monster dogs at will."

"How do you know all this?" DuQuene demanded gruffly, pinning some predark

medals to his shirt. One of the many treasures found in the ruins where his

grandfather had built the ville was a military supply store. All of the ammo and

blasters were gone, but many other useful items remained: uniforms, medals, lots

of swords and countless books on warfare. DuQuene had never learned to read, but

he wore the medals and they made him feel brave and confident, as he had earned

the right to wear the decorations through simple birth. Aside from the fancy

ribbons and medals, the baron was wearing a helmet from some predark war. Made

of heavy steel, it was round with a very wide brim and a chin strap to keep it

in place. DuQuene had many others helmets from different wars. Some were more

lightweight, others formfitting and sleek, but this antique was made of heavy

steel with several deep dents, showing it was protection against large-caliber

rounds. The sec men got the fancy helmets for battle, but the steel was reserved

solely for the use of the baron.

"I know," Henderson replied coldly, "because Cawdor obliterated my troops with

those blasted dogs."

"So we need a strategy to remove them first off," a sec man said.

"You have the answer right here," Henderson replied gesturing at the assortment

of weapons. "Pike to hold the dogs off while archers feather them with poisoned

arrows. Once the dogs are gone, the battle will be easy."

"Perhaps," DuQuene demurred, hands clasped behind his back. "But their front

gate is formidable. It would take a lot of explosives to blow through, and why

wouldn't they use their sky machine on invaders outside the walls?"

Putting the charcoal aside, Henderson knew he had no answer to that simple

question and so lied outrageously. "It's too close," he said smoothly. "They try

and melt us, they'd only destroy themselves."

"And you know this for a fact?" the baron asked, not looking in his direction.

Baron Henderson grinned anyway. "Of course."

"Good." DuQuene turned. "Because you will be leading my troops into battle."

"That wasn't part of our deal," Henderson snapped.

"It is now," Seaton replied, eyeing him with disdain.

Suddenly, a sec man burst into the room and drew his blaster. The sec men closed

around the baron, but the newcomer had his weapon pointed at Henderson. "What is

the meaning of this outrage!" he sputtered, sticking a hand into his pants and

grabbing the squat derringer.

"Well?" DuQuene demanded. "Report, trooper," Seaton added, a hand on his own

weapon.

"Bind that son of a bitch!" the sec man ordered, cocking back the hammer of his

handcannon. "He's a fucking liar, my lord! I just rode back from Front Royal and

found them hard at work repairing damage from an attack. I bought some of the

civilians drinks in a bar and got the whole story. There was a revolt. Some man

named Overton pretended he was the bastard son of a Cawdor and tried to take

over."

"If he was strong enough to do so, good," DuQuene stated. "Only the strong

should rule."

While the sec men murmured approval at the statement, Henderson edged a little

closer to a gun rack. His derringer would buy him a few seconds, but after that,

he was in for a fight. The whitehair had no intention of getting captured alive

and letting DuQuene do what he had done so often to his own prisoners. The very

thought made him feel ill, and Henderson fought back a wave of nausea. Some of

the sec men noticed his movement and moved to intercept him. Henderson changed

his course, a new plan already forming in his mind.

"He had lots of blasters and a war wag in perfect condition, but Ryan Cawdor

stopped the man. They have no intention of attacking anybody. They're building

their walls and planting crops."

"Not what you do when planning an invasion."

Seaton stated, drawing his oversized weapon and pointing the business end at

Henderson. Everybody behind the old baron moved away quickly.

Going backward to the wall as if terrified, Henderson quickly drew his tiny

derringer. The sec men laughed at the miniature blaster, until the old baron

thrust it against an alcohol lantern and fired. The glass reservoir shattered,

spraying burning fluid over a gun rack and the stack of ammo boxes underneath.

The sec man yelled as they scrambled for cover. Seaton kicked over the map table

for protection, and DuQuene pulled a guard in front of him as a shield while

Henderson dived for the open doorway and sprinted down a hallway just as the

first of the bullets began to ignite from the spreading flames. In seconds the

war room was under a barrage of ricochets, the flames spreading across the

carpeting toward the kegs of black powder…

EVENING WAS starting to darken the sky over Green Cove ville, and the sec men on

top of the baron's building grew tense as they heard the sounds of distant

blasterfire. Only the noise was muffled, and they weren't sure from what

direction it was coming. All looked quiet in the streets below. Just then, the

guards felt a warm wind wash over them and noticed a sudden increase in the

waning daylight.

"What the fuck is that?" a sec man asked, looking straight upward. There was no

lightning in the sky, no sounds of thunder. But as he watched, the red and

orange clouds began to thin and within moments a clear blue sky was visible.

"Nuke me," a corporal whispered in astonishment, rubbing at his itchy cheek.

"Never seen nothing like that before!"

"A clear blue sky," another agreed, twitching at the gnats biting his skin. "Got

to be a good sign."

"You think?"

"What else could it be?"

"Mebbe so," the first man muttered, idly scratching at his exposed forearms,

then doing so with more force. What was going on? He felt as if ants were

crawling over his body, but nothing was visible on his skin. Maybe he caught

something from those travelers he raped last week. Damn farmers, weren't even

good for a decent hump.

Then the guards jumped as something moist smacked onto the roof nearby. Working

the bolt on his longblaster, the corporal walked over and was stunned to see a

dead eagle sprawled on the concrete, wisps of steam hissing from within its

curved beak.

Starting to twitch badly, the puzzled sec man stared at the other guards and saw

their eyes turn solid white a split second before his own vision went completely

black.

Wild panic seized the men, and they dropped their blasters to rub their eyes in

the desperate hope something was merely covering their faces and blocking the

light. But nothing was there, and they began to twitch from the painful tingling

now covering their entire bodies. Abandoning his friends, one sec man darted for

the stairs and ran straight off the edge of the roof, wailing all the way down

to the street where he landed across the top of an artesian well, the brutal

impact shattering his spine and shoving pieces of bone through his chest Blind

and paralyzed, the sec man couldn't even scream anymore as he felt his lifeblood

flowing along his limbs and into the water below.

Crawling along the roof, the other sec men made it to the stairs and soon were

tumbling down the steps in their haste to escape. As they reached the fourth

floor, the sounds of blasterfire became noticeably louder. They stumbled along a

hallway, shouting for help until the corporal accidentally bumped into an

alcohol lantern, spilling the fuel all over himself and bursting into flames.

The burning man screamed in agony and madly dashed around, igniting wallpaper

and tapestries until finally collapsing to the carpet, the predark shag whoofing

into flames as if it had been designed for such a purpose. Backing away from the

growing conflagration, the third sec man found himself trapped in a corner with

nowhere to run. Clawing the wall to try to find a door or a window, the trooper

felt his clothes catch fire and grew strangely peaceful as he drew his

handcannon and shoved it inside his mouth to blow out his brains rather than

burn to death. But the bullet only grazed his skull, removing an ear and a lot

of flesh. Badly wounded and unable to make a sound, the sec man was horribly

alive as the flames claimed a new victim.

Somewhere in the ville, the alarm bell began to ring, as thatched roofs on the

servants huts started to smolder and smoke. In the streets, horses screamed and

ran blindly through crowds, knocking over the twitching civilians before dashing

out their own lives against a stone wall. More birds fell from the terrible blue

sky as the people began to understand they were blind and insanely screamed for

help.

TAKING THE STAIRS two at a time, Henderson reached the next floor of the

building and hid in a closet to drop his pants and extract the bamboo tube of

jolt from its hiding place. Taking a deep sniff up each nostril, the man

instantly felt years younger, stronger, smarter, his heart pounding with renewed

strength inside his old chest. As he buckled his belt, he could hear the

constant explosion of live rounds from upstairs, and an alarm bell was ringing.

He wondered how anybody could have learned of his escape so quickly.

Going down the hallway and through the kitchen, he passed the cringing servants

and reached the banquet hall, heading straight for the damaged window. It was

his only chance of escape. The first floor of the building was the barracks for

the sec men. He'd never get out that way. Grabbing a chair, the whitehair

battered at the weakened planks until they came free and fell to the floor.

"Hey!" a female voice said, shuffling forward with a strange expression on her

face.

Ruthlessly, Henderson fired point-blank, the .44 round opening up the belly of

the serving girl like a bag of rope. Returning to his work, the old baron tore

fingernails as he struggled to remove the last of the planks and kick his way

through the glass. More planks covered the window from the outside, but those

were easy to remove, and soon Henderson was able to climb onto the ledge. He was

bleeding from both hands, but the river was almost directly below. As he tested

the wind and tried to gauge the distance, the old baron felt itchy all over, the

tingling sensation oddly pleasant mixed with the effects of the jolt, and then

he went stone blind.

Startled, he slipped off the ledge and fell, going into a dive as he tried to

angle for the river. Baron John Henderson slammed headfirst onto the cracked

pavement of Green Cove ville, missing the rushing waters of the cool river by

less than a yard. Death was instantaneous. He was one of the lucky ones.

WITH ALL OF HIS MIGHT, Seaton threw the spear across the fiery war room and hit

the last keg of black powder, cracking it apart a split second before the raging

fire got through the wood. Instantly, the black powder flared brighter than the

sun, producing volumes of acrid smoke, but the deadly explosion was avoided.

"Follow me!" DuQuene shouted, heading for the doorway and holding the map table

as a shield. With slugs slapping into the tabletop, the baron backed out of the

war room, herding the rest of the sec men to safety.

Reaching the next room, Seaton slammed the dividing door shut and threw the

bolt, sealing the fire on the other side. The sec men sighed in relief, then

started to rub vigorously at their faces.

"I want Henderson found and skinned alive!" Baron DuQuene railed furiously,

casting the table aside. "I'm going to make him watch as I eat his balls for

breakfast! We'll get wild muties to fuck him after we stitch his mouth shut!"

He waited for the expected response, but the others were too busy scratching

themselves. Suddenly crying out, the men began to tear at their faces, weeping

and waving their hands as if the very air were attacking them. They started to

bump into one another and to twitch uncontrollably, shouting obscenities and

clawing bloody gouges in their skin.

Rubbing at his slightly itchy forearms, DuQuene could only stare in bafflement

at the convulsing people. His men was acting as if they had gone blind! Watching

in horrid fascination, the baron slowly came to comprehend that the analogy was

correct. They were blind, but how? Something in the smoke? Had Henderson

poisoned the food? If so, then why wasn't he affected?

This was when DuQuene noticed the antique steel army helmet on his head was

becoming uncomfortably hot. He started to remove it before realizing the metal

had to be somehow protecting him from whatever was happening. There were more

helmets in the war room, but the flames were licking at the ceiling, bullets

discharging constantly. Return was impossible.

Accepting that, DuQuene picked up the battered table and plowed a path through

the screaming people to reach the door to the stairs, only to find a snarling

Seaton clawing at the locked door, trying to dig his way through. Without a

qualm, the baron shot the man and left him dying on the floor to be trampled by

the others while he slipped through and locked the door behind him. There was no

sense allowing the others to get in the way of his escape. Blind, they were dead

already as far as he was concerned.

Heading quickly down the stairs, DuQuene heard the alarm bell ringing over the

blasterfire from above. What the hell was going on in his ville? Was this some

sort of an attack? Maybe Nathan Cawdor heard of his intent to attack Front Royal

and was melting Green Cove first. Damn the man! Not even an offer to surrender

first! The man would pay for that with his life.

On the ground floor, he found only chaos in the barracks, the sec men stabbing

and shooting one another for no sane reason. It was literally a blind panic.

Faintly from the dungeon below, DuQuene could hear the prisoners begging for

help and he dismissed them all without a thought. If he couldn't help his sec

men, why should he care about thieves and murderers?

The smell of his singeing hair was beginning to choke the man, the antique army

helmet becoming almost too hot to touch. But DuQuene accepted the pain and

watched the armed mob chilling one another as the men fought to escape through

wide open doorways. Covered in blood, one man simply clawed at his faced until

the flesh was in tatters, endlessly yelling that this was all a dream and

couldn't be happening. DuQuene leveled his blaster at the beleaguered soul, then

decided it was stupe to waste a round on a walking corpse.

The baron itched horribly on his arms and legs, but through sheer force of will

kept his hands from tearing at the flesh. This wasn't what Henderson had

described. The stone walls were cool to the touch, and there was a smell of

smoke, but not fire in the air. Front Royal was doing something new. However, if

this was a sky attack, then he better get as far away from the open air as

possible.

For a split second, he debated trying for the river, then changed his mind and

headed for the stairs that led to the dungeon. Deep underground he should be

safe from the sky machine. And when the attack stopped, he would take all of the

supplies he could pack into a wag and leave the rest of his people to await the

arrival of the enemy troops. The survivors would probably be taken into chains

as slaves. But not him. That wasn't how Armand DuQuene would exit the world.

Reaching the basement of the predark building, DuQuene felt the terrible itching

noticeably lessen and sighed with relief. Then he heard the telltale click-clack

of cell doors opening and saw the ragged prisoners walking out of their cells,

carrying the blasters and keys of the prison guards.

Snarling, DuQuene swung his blaster around and fired, chilling half a dozen

before the rest swarmed over him, yanking away the blaster and knocking off the

steel helmet. DuQuene braced himself for the onslaught of blindness and was

shocked when it didn't occur. The walls had to be too thick down here. He was

protected from the ravages of the sky machine, but then he realized it also

meant that the prisoners were unaffected. They could see! The men and women he

had been brutally torturing for months, years, were loose and armed, and could

see!

His pitiful wails for mercy were swamped by the gleeful howls of the starving

prisoners as they savagely ripped away his clothing and began to tear the hated

baron apart with their bare hands. DuQuene's ghastly screams of agony rose in

pitch as the starving men and women began to gorge themselves on raggedy gobbets

of his tender flesh.

Chapter Seventeen

In the bottom level of the redoubt, the companions checked their equipment one

last time.

"Ready?" Ryan asked, shifting the weight of the heavy pack on his back. The

fluted plastic tubes of a couple of LAW rocket launchers jutted from the pack,

along with a single HAFLA. The attack was going to be a nightcreep, a silent

penetration, but in case of trouble, Ryan wanted some big ordnance to help blast

their way to freedom. As the Trader always said, a man could never have too many

friends, or too much explosives.

"Ready as we're going to be," J.B. replied. He felt more like himself again with

the S&W shotgun and an AK-47 strapped across his back, the Uzi hung at his right

side and a bulging bag of explosives serving as a counterbalance on the left

side of his body.

In preparation for the assault, the companions had enjoyed a good meal and

gotten a few hours of sleep during the day. Fed and rested, every companion

carried a Kalashnikov, a bulging ammo pouch either on their belt or slung over a

shoulder. Jak also toted the remaining crossbow with an arrow notched under the

string and two more taped to the either side of the stock for fast loading.

These were the last three of the homemade arrows, and only two had steel

arrowheads. But the weapon was silent, and in the teenager's deft hands would

chill from a very great distance.

Only Dean wasn't burdened with plas charges. He had hauled down a chair from one

of the offices upstairs and was piling boxes and bags in front of it to make a

crude barricade.

Rotating the cylinder of his LeMat to visually inspect the charged chambers, Doc

set the selector pin and slid the mammoth handcannon into its holster. "You

know," Doc said from out of the blue, "sometimes I am sorry about throwing my

hat into the Hudson River. A hat makes a man feel more protected, fully

clothed."

"It was a damn silly thing," Mildred chided playfully, stuffing more rags into a

duffel bag sitting on the floor. "Made you look a little like Lincoln."

"A wise and great man."

"Who got shot in the back of the head."

"Bad luck," Jak added.

"Man makes his own luck," Dean stated, sounding exactly like his father.

Ryan nodded. Amazing good luck hadn't gotten him the 7.62 mm rounds now loaded

into his Steyr SSG-70. He had searched for sniper rifles among the weaponry in

the Quonset hut, and near a Barrett 1-A had found a case of Steyr longblasters

and boxes of ammo, along with the rotary mag they used. Nothing lucky about it,

just hard work and brains, that's all. Silas was mad, but not a fool, and he had

stocked only the best weapons in the armory of his Shiloh base.

Mildred was struggling to balance her load of ammo pouches, plas charges and the

med kit. Incredibly, it was from a time after she went into cryo-sleep and had

some items she couldn't identify. That made it worth more than anything

imaginable. What fantastic breakthroughs had been accomplished just before

skydark while she slumbered in her frozen coffin?

"Hey, what was that?" Krysty asked, snicking off the safety of the longblaster

with a sweep of her thumb. She started toward the stairs in a crouch and paused

at the bottom step.

The rest of the companions braced for an attack, and the redhead tensely waited,

her hair motionless about her lovely face as the woman strained to catch the

sound again. Minutes passed, and she slowly, reluctantly, relaxed.

"Must have been some of the automatic machinery," Krysty said hesitantly, then

glanced at the silent water pump across the room. The base did a lot of repairs

all by itself, monitoring water pressure, and the elevator ran up and down every

few days to keep the cables greased. Was that what she had heard?

"What did you think it was?" Doc asked, tightly gripping the AK-47. The scholar

was well versed in the operation of automatic weapons, even though he much

preferred the solid reliability of a revolver. Blasters like his LeMat and Jak's

Colt Python .357 Magnum didn't even have a jam factor. They couldn't jam, unlike

a rapidfire. A person could load a revolver, stick it somewhere and pull it out

ten years later to shoot. Good as gold, they were. With an automatic, a person

was forced to unload the clip and ease off bolts constantly. Damn things

required more maintenance than a Thoroughbred colt. But in the forthcoming

donnybrook, Doc knew this was the tool needed to assure success. So be it, the

LeMat was ready to go if the Kalashnikov failed.

Krysty started to speak just as the water pump for the fusion reactor began to

thump softly. "Just the pump," she replied with a sigh, her hair moving in

gentle waves. "Guess I'm a little on edge. Too much coffee at breakfast."

"You sure?" Ryan demanded, glancing up the stairs. Nothing was in sight, and no

noise could be heard over the steadily working pump.

She smiled. "Yeah, I'm sure. Come on, let's get going. We have a long walk to

reach the quarry."

Lighting their torches, the companions opened the door and were startled to see

a couple of runts curled into fetal positions on the rocky ground, snoring

soundly. As the fluorescent light washed over the muties, they awoke with a

start and backed away, bowing and scraping to the tall norms.

"Machine god!" one cried out fearfully. "We waited!"

Ryan glowered down at the diminutive being. "As I ordered," he said. "Has all

been done that I asked?"

"Yes, god!" the other said, holding a three-fingered hand before its pale face

to block out the bright illumination of the redoubt. "We obey all!"

"Show me," Ryan commanded, and strode down the tunnel, making the runts race to

keep abreast of the big man.

Once more, Dean stayed behind and watched the adults proceed deeper into the

underground. Somebody had to make sure the entrance to the redoubt was still

available when they returned. The heavy door didn't even have a handle or lock

on the outside. If it closed, the companions would have been forced to go

outside and cross open country to enter the redoubt through the front door.

Settling in his chair, Dean rested the Kalashnikov in his lap. Taking out his

pocketknife, he started to cut slices off a brick of military cheese from a MRE

pack and prepared for a long wait. Then something bounced down the stairs,

clanging and banging on every step and issuing volumes of gray smoke.

The boy gasped at the sight of the military gas gren, then realized his mistake,

but it was too late. Trying to force limp fingers to trigger the longblaster, he

slumped over and lay unnaturally still within the billowing gray cloud.

ONE LEVEL ABOVE, Collette smiled in satisfaction at the sound of the body

hitting the floor. Sliding combat boots back on her bare feet, the woman drew a

knife, impatiently waiting for the life-support system of the redoubt to clear

the air and allow her to finally reach the staggering pile of weapons and

supplies so tantalizingly close below.

REACHING THE END of the tunnel, the companions and their mutie guides went down

the incline to find even more runts waiting for them with offerings of

mushrooms, smoked rats and baskets of fluffy moss.

"Gifts!" the chief announced, gesturing at the baskets. "Much food!"

Ryan looked over the assortment and pointed the Kalashnikov at the attending

rants. They went deathly still, until he laid the longblaster on a shoulder. "I

am pleased," he announced, "but we don't need more food yet. You may keep and

eat."

"Hail the machine god," a female warrior whispered in shock, then she shouted it

to the cavern roof. "Hail the machine gods!"

The runts cheered wildly at the magnificent gift, only a few of their numbers

glowering in open hostility at the norms. But those muties also stayed well away

from muzzles of the deadly blasters.

"Now take us to where your old god died," Ryan commanded loudly, his words

echoing among the stalagmite forest. "And I want fifty of your strongest workers

to follow. We have much to do."

"Will this bring more food?" the chief asked hopefully.

"Better," he replied.

On cue, J.B. tossed a cloth bundle at the feet of the little mutie. It came

apart as it hit the ground, spilling out dozens of knives. The runts stared at

the steel weapons and reached for them, then looked at Ryan for permission. The

Deathlands warrior nodded, and the chief lifted a blade, marveling at its shine,

then testing the edge of a palm. A line of blood welled from his skin and flowed

along his hairless arm.

"Magic knives!" the chief shouted, brandishing the Bowie knife, and the runts

chorused the words over and over in a wild frenzy.

"It shall be done as you command, god," the leader of the runts breathed,

hugging the knife and bowing deeply, his twin tufts of hair brushing the pile of

weapons.

The companions waited while the chief distributed the knives to the female

warrior and a select few of the males. Then, choosing his work force, the proud

runt led the norms from the cavern into a warren of caves. Zigzagging through a

maze of cracks and hewn tunnels, the runts led the companions back to the

crashed wag. Once there, Ryan had the muties start a relay line, hauling the

smaller of the rocks from the pile until the tiny pinprick of light from the

outside world was enlarged to a medium-sized hole. Satisfied, Ryan dismissed the

runts, sending them back to their ville. The chief was the last to go, dragging

his feet and stalling, obviously hoping to be allowed to stay. But when Ryan

began to frown, the chief took flight and disappeared into the subterranean

darkness.

"Twilight," Jak said, studying the purplish illumination outside. "Got to wait

some."

"Mebbe an hour or so till night," Ryan said, checking his wrist chron. "Time to

get ready."

Dropping their packs, the companions gratefully stretched their muscles, working

out some kinks. Meanwhile, Krysty opened her duffel bag and started passing out

the long strips of blue cloth.

"I never asked where you got it," J.B. said, tying a length around his head

pirate fashion.

"Officers' quarters," she answered, removing the chron from her wrist and

attaching it farther up her arm safely under a sleeve. "Lots of Navy and Air

Force uniforms still hanging in the closet. Army camou is the best, but this

blue is dark enough."

Opening the door to the wag, Ryan went behind the seats and got a tire iron,

then proceeded to remove the lug nuts off both front tires. Rocks under the wag

prevented it from lowering to the ground, and the man had no trouble removing

the castle nuts on the axle and sliding off the main bearing assembly.

"Use it sparingly," he said, proffering the handful of grease to the others.

"This is all we have."

Krysty dabbed in a finger and smeared the cold grease over her cheek, leaving a

wide black streak. J.B. followed her example.

"Me next," Jak said, tying back his long snowy hair. "Need rag for this."

Krysty passed the teenager a cloth for his hair.

"I do believe that I shall need similar protection myself, madam," Doc rumbled,

brushing a hand over his waves of silvery hair. "This will reflect light like a

mirror."

"Hey, boots," Jak said to Krysty, pointing downward.

The redhead looked and cursed. The silver embroidered falcons on her blue cowboy

boots would stand out in the darkness like a neon banner. Ripping another

uniform to strips, she bound her footwear until the silver was properly masked.

"Bombs prepped?" Ryan asked, smearing grease over his face. Strips of cloth were

already wrapped around the barrels of their weapons to prevent any reflection.

He had passed by dozens of Parkerized automatics in the Quonset hut, and those

were perfect for this kind of attack. But the metal also corroded easily, and so

he hadn't taken any. That had been a mistake on his part. Hopefully not a deadly

one.

The Armorer patted the heavy bag at his side. "Don't know how many boilers the

ville's power plant has," J.B. said, "so I used all of the plas from the

Claymore and spare grens to make six bombs. When these go off, the boiler will

erupt, taking out most of the ville, and the rest will be washed with steam. Not

many folks are going to be alive after that."

"One should go on the main support column of the dish," Ryan stated, greasing up

his neck, then the back of his hands. "Buckle that and gravity will finish the

job."

"And then we go in and remove any survivors?" Doc asked, tucking another blue

cloth into his shirt to hang down like a bib and cover the white linen frills.

"Got it covered," J.B. said, lifting a squat package. "This one goes on the

outside of the Quonset hut, just to the left of the door. It should blow a hole

through the corrugated wall and ignite the pile of fuel barrels on the inside.

That'll start a chain reaction among the stores of ammo, finishing the job the

boilers begin. Actually, this charge will ignite first so nobody can try and

escape through the gateway."

"If they haven't already."

"Yeah, true enough."

"No danger of that," Krysty said, stretching her arm out the hole in the rock

pile. She crawled partially out of the opening, then came back with an

expression of success. In her hands was what appeared to be a retinal scanner.

"Looks like they took that gateway apart."

"To stop us from trying to gain entry again," Ryan said. "Only do that if they

were never coming back here again."

"Mebbe be gone already," J.B. observed.

Just then a rain of rubbish crashed into the quarry, starting a small landslide

of ruined technology.

"Still here," Jak said grimly, tying a strip of cloth around the six-inch shiny

steel barrel of his .357 Colt Python.

While the others finished their preparations, Mildred placed the med kit inside

the crushed wag. She hated to leave it behind, but it was much too heavy for her

to carry along with the assorted weapons and explosives. Besides, the companions

would be coming back this way. Nice to know it was here to patch any wounds in

case they caught some lead blowing the ville to hell.

"Any chance the blast will cause a cave-in down here?" she asked suddenly.

"No way," Ryan stated, adjusting his bandoleer of loaded rotary clips for the

Steyr. "The ceiling is supported by the same metal as the nukeproof door of the

redoubts, same stuff that forms the outside armor of the redoubts themselves.

These tunnels will hold."

"Cavern?" Jak asked, looking down the long dark tunnel.

"That could be trouble," J.B. admitted. "But we'll have plenty of time to get

past the cavern before the charges blow. I set them for thirty minutes."

"More than enough," Ryan said, going to the hole and glancing outside. The

shadows from the high walls of the quarry made it difficult to determine if true

night had fallen yet. Drawing the SIG-Sauer, the one-eyed man settled down on a

rock and patiently waited until the darkness was near absolute, softened only by

the cold moonlight.

"Good enough. Let's go," he said, and started to climb into the ragged hole.

Crawling over the smashed rocks, the companions exited the tunnel and moved

silently through the jumbled remains of the quarry. Bits and pieces of crumpled

machinery jutted from the piles of stones, along with an occasional human arm or

leg, most of them still wearing the chains of their servitude.

Watching the cliffs above for any sign of movement, the companions proceeded a

few yards and paused, repeating the process until reaching a sloped road. They

followed it to the top of the quarry and saw the wall of the ville rising before

them. There didn't seem to be any sec man walking patrol along the top of the

wall, and only a single searchlight swept over the ville. Then the revolving

beam washed briefly across the dish, rising majestically into the sky. At that

close range, the predark antenna looked impossibly huge. Directly ahead of them

was a gate set in the limestone wall, banded metal of some kind with hidden

hinges, with no lock or handle. They instinctively knew it would take explosives

to get through that portal. Thankfully, they had another way inside the Shiloh

base. That was, if Ryan and J.B. remembered the layout of the ville correctly.

If not, the mission was a bust from the start. The backup plan was to simply

shoot the dish with the LAW rockets from outside the wall, then run for cover

and hopefully get back inside the underground tunnels before sec men arrived in

an APC and shot them to pieces. The plan bordered on suicide, and they all knew

it, but the destruction would stop the blues. At least, for a little while.

Raising a hand to signal for a pause, Ryan pulled the lone HAFLA rocket launcher

from his backpack and placed it on the ground next to a whipping post for

slaves. He laid a strip of dark cloth on top, then sprinkled some dirt over

both. In the darkness, the lump was nearly invisible from only a yard away.

Ryan gestured at the hidden weapon with a stiff finger, then slashed a hand

sideways across his throat. The masked companions nodded in understanding. The

launcher was for life-and-death emergencies only. Ryan gave a thumbs-up and

gestured to the western side of the quarry, slightly away from the imposing

wall.

Following the edge of the cliff, the companions spotted dark shapes in the wan

moonlight and found a line of broken wags. Sheffield and his people were still

here. Jak and Ryan stood guard with their silenced weapons, while J.B. found a

vehicle in decent shape and put it into neutral. He steered while the rest

pushed the wag toward the wall, its flat tires crunching over the loose gravel.

Coming abreast to the wall, J.B. parked the wag and set the brake. Weapons at

the ready, the companions walked for a minute, listening for any reactions or

alarms, but all was still.

Going to the rear of the wag, Krysty tied a rope to the main axle, loosely

coiling the rest of the length over a shoulder. The strong cotton rope had been

machine washed in hot water with dark clothing of different colors found in the

redoubt and came out a murky camou pattern that was barely visible.

One by one, they climbed up the wag and onto the top of the wide stone blocks.

Krysty was the last, trailing the rope behind her as she joined the others, and

they stood gazing upon the ville of the blues. There seemed to be some damage to

a few of the buildings, and each attributed it to possible mutie attacks. The

rad-blasted animals of Tennessee were the wild-card factor in the whole

operation. If there was an attack by screamwings or stickies while the

companions were planting the charges, the chances of their getting out were

slimmer than a baron keeping a solemn promise.

Crouching, the companions waited on the wall while Ryan headed to the left, Jak

to the right. The masked teenager traveled only a hundred yards before a figure

appeared on the wall before him. Without pause, Jak fired the crossbow, the bolt

taking the man in the throat. Dropping his blaster, the sec man staggered and

almost fell inside the ville, but the albino teenager rushed forward, grabbed

the man by the shirt and shoved him over the wall. He toppled over the edge and

inside the ville, but Ryan fired a fast four times, the silenced slugs slapping

the man backward until he fell outside the wall. The body landed with a crunch,

and Jak moved on. Reaching the gap in the wall, the teenager headed back along

the top until rejoining the others. A few seconds later, Ryan returned, sliding

a fresh clip into his empty SIG-Sauer. Suddenly, the searchlight was coming

their way. The companions hurried to exterior edge of the blocks and lowered

themselves over the side, holding on by their hands. The brilliant beam swept

over that section of the wall and moved onward without even pausing. The

companions pulled themselves up and moved to the inside edge. Krysty now

uncoiled the colored rope and lowered the knotted length to the ground below.

Ryan went first to anchor the rope with his weight, and the rest followed. They

reached the scorched earth and spread out so as not to offer a group target to

any unseen enemy. Overton had been a sharp military commander, but they didn't

know if Sheffield was any good. Underestimating an opponent was a fast way to

taking the forever sleep. Fools thought they were invincible and died, a true

warrior feared death and so lived to fight another day.

Stabbing a wooden stake into the ground, Ryan tied off the rope to keep it

still, then took a handful of dirt and rubbed some of it between his fingers.

The soil was badly burned. Even the roots of the grass were charred dead.

Sheffield had to have used the Kite on his own base. If he could do that… For a

moment Ryan weighed calling off the assault, then decided they would never have

another chance to finish the job. In every fight, every battle, an opportunity

would come for a telling strike that would end the matter. If the chance was

missed, the odds might turn against you. Ryan touched the long scar on his face

and frowned, then raised an open hand, closing it into a fist to summon the

others.

Passing out the plas charges, J.B. whispered brief instructions on how to set

the timing pencils embedded into the huge wads of sticky C-4. Accepting the

charge, Jak gave Mildred the crossbow and drew one of his many knives, the steel

blade blackened with soot from a candle flame. Then Jak moved off into the

darkness and was gone from sight. The young hunter worked best alone on a

nightcreep and they all knew it.

Krysty and Doc were assigned the dish. She took the charge, and they headed

around the silent slave quarters to swing behind the blockhouse underneath the

antenna. Holding the crossbow and a Kalashnikov, Mildred stayed with the rope to

act as anchor for the group, while J.B. and Ryan moved stealthily through the

night towards the noisy power plant full of sec men.

Chapter Eighteen

In the cool quiet of his private bedroom, Baron Sheffield sat in a comfortable

chair and sipped a glass of whiskey. The amber-colored liquid swirled over the

miracle of ice cubes from his small electric fridge in the corner. It had been a

long day, and the next one would be even longer, but success was spread before

them like a path through the woods. Where Silas had so sadly failed, there was

no way Sheffield could do anything but succeed.

The table before him was stacked with maps of Virginia, both predark and modern.

The civilians and sec men of Green Cove ville were probably still chilling one

another, finding an easy release from their blindness. Melt a ville, what crap!

Where was the profit in that? Corpses made poor slaves. But blind men could

still be chained to a plow, or a waterwheel.

Sheffield took another sip of the whiskey, marveling over its smoothness and

savoring the rich flavor on his tongue. The ancient stuff tasted nothing like

homemade shine.

The next day, his small army of blue shirts would leave this rad-blasted

hellhole and seize their new home at Green Cove. He would immediately send out a

scout to talk peace with Nathan Cawdor of Front Royal to buy them the week

necessary to get the new dish functioning properly. Then he would blind Front

Royal, chill Cawdor, take his bitch as his personal slut, loot everything there

was, especially any puppies of those mutant dogs so he could raise them as his

own guards, and then melt the place to the ground. It made no sense to leave a

stronghold like that so close to his new ville where enemies could hide and

prepare to launch an attack. The world was full of fools, but the thinking man

ruled them all.

Setting down the glass, Sheffield rose from his chair and began to strip for

sleep. With the destruction of the gateway, Ryan had been neutralized, Silas was

dead and he had a new ville and dish. A new era would soon begin in Deathlands,

making the current days of bloody chaos seem like a pleasant afternoon. The

whole world was in the palm of his hand, and soon he would start to squeeze.

KALASHNIKOV IN A STEADY grip, a sec man walked among the brick buildings of the

Shiloh base, listening for any suspicious noises. The muties hadn't attacked for

a while, and he was part of the new increased patrol to make sure the creatures

didn't get inside the base again. And flying over the wall was just about the

only way they could get inside. The hole was jam packed with barbed wire and

miscellaneous junk. Nobody and nothing was getting through that crap pile of

explosives and glass.

Watching the searchlight swing by overhead, the man glanced around and stepped

into the shadows behind the Quonset hut. He lit a cig and drew in a lungful of

smoke with a satisfied sigh. Then he went motionless.

Someone stepped in and gently lowered the corpse to the ground, removed the cig

and crushed it under a boot.

In a faint sucking noise, Jak removed the knife from the sec man's neck where he

had expertly inserted it into the man's brain. The blade was shiny clean now, so

the teenager rubbed some dirt on the bloody blade to keep down the sheen, then

moved on to the Quonset hut.

A light was on above the only door, and two sec men stood guard. But that wasn't

his goal. Spotting some crates and barrels that generated a tiny pool of

darkness near the back of the hut, Jak crawled along the ground until he was

safely within the shadowed area. Sliding the charge off his back, he placed it

against the cool corrugated metal of the hut, the plas molding itself to the

irregular surface and firmly adhering. Inserting a timing pencil into the bottom

of the wad where it couldn't be seen, he snapped it off at the correct length

starting the silent chem fuse. Then he stabbed another timing pencil into the

top of the wad where it couldn't help but be seen, and set the timing pencil for

two hours. If a sec man found the charge, he would remove the wrong pencil

trying to defuse the bomb and think he was safe.

One of the guards coughed and the other softly made a rude comment of some kind

that started both men laughing. Jak crawled backward from the ticking bomb, and

the night swallowed him whole.

LUNGING INTO THE POOL of light, Doc skewered the sec man through the throat,

removing any possibility of a cry of alarm. Startled, the dying man dropped his

longblaster, and Krysty caught the weapon before it clattered onto the hard

ground. Then she grabbed his booted feet while Doc got the shoulders, and they

hauled the man where nobody could see and neatly finished the job.

Returning, Doc rubbed out the spilled blood with his boots, while Krysty studied

the surrounding buildings to see if anybody noticed the absence of the guard. No

one had.

Deciding the area was clear for the moment, they dropped to the ground and

crawled across the few yards of open land to reach the closest support column.

Safe in its web of shadows, they closely inspected the thick girder. The

imposing array of riveted steel was strong enough to not only support the dish,

but to also completely resist the push of any wind against the titanic mass.

Finding a junction, Krysty cupped her hands and boosted Doc up into the maze of

metal. Using fingertip pressure, he molded the wad of plas into a long strip.

Its job wasn't to blow a hole in the support column, but to weaken the strut

sufficiently so that gravity would pull down the dish and complete the

destruction.

Hearing the sound of bootsteps coming their way, Krysty tapped Doc's shin,

urging him to hide. Releasing the plas, the old man chinned himself into the

struts while Krysty curled into a ball on the ground, making herself as small as

possible.

Smoking cigs, four sec men walked by the companions less than a yard away.

Unseen blasters tracked the blues from the shadows until they crossed the street

and went inside the barracks. Her hair writhing under the confining bandanna,

Krysty hissed at Doc, and he redoubled his speed. He pressed the plas into

place, stabbed in the two timing pencils, setting the alternate times, and

gracefully jumped to the ground.

Glancing upward, Krysty could see nothing amiss in the struts overhead and

nodded in satisfaction as they stealthily moved into the night once more, just

as the searchlight swept over the blockhouse and support columns with its

brilliant white light.

CROUCHED OUTSIDE the power plant, Ryan and J.B. could hear the steam boilers

hissing loudly and the massive pumps pounding as they turned banks of generators

to make the electricity to power the comps and the motors that operated the

dish. This was the hard job. The others could plant their charges on the outside

of the buildings, but that wouldn't work here. These explosives needed to be

planted directly on the boilers.

The taste of coal was thick in their mouths, as the two men peered through a

grimy window. Inside was a group of blues in T-shirts playing cards and drinking

cold beer taken from a small fridge, their shirts hung over the backs of their

chairs, Kalashnikovs standing along the wall in a tidy row for fast access.

Retreating from the window, Ryan tugged J.B. on the cuff and made a knocking

motion. The Armorer nodded.

J.B. knocked softly. A grumbling voice demanded to know what the fuck was wrong

now and shoved the door aside. Ryan fired the SIG-Sauer twice in soft chugs,

blood exploding from the sec man's throat and left eye.

The man staggered backward, and the masked companions rushed inside the office,

using the body as a shield. The blues stood up, shouting in surprise, only one

of them going for a blaster. Ryan kneecapped the man, and he hit the floor

inches short of the deadly rapidfires. They pushed the corpse into the others

and pulled their knives, slashing throats and stabbing into armpits with deadly

results. In under a minute the floor of the office was awash with blood.

The heat from the boilers was stifling. Reluctantly, Ryan and J.B. removed their

bandannas and loosened their shirts, sweat already trickling the axle grease

from their faces.

A wall of glass windows fronted the office, but the glass was yellowed from the

soot and condensed creosote, almost too dingy to see through. Ryan took a bloody

shirt and rubbed a spot clean to peek inside the power plant. Apparently, they

had chosen the right spot to strike. Beyond the office was the main floor of the

boiler assembly. The chimneys were brick, but the boilers were seamless vats

containing countless tons of pressure. Steam hissed from a hundred joints in the

feeder pipes and from the ever cycling pistons. Ryan couldn't imagine how Silas

got it here through the little gateway. It had to have already been here,

something from predark days that Silas repaired into a functioning power plant.

What other explanation could there be?

Testing a bottle, J.B. found the beer on the card table was still cold, and each

man took a refreshing swig. Then, stepping out of the office, they began a

security sweep of the place. J.B. and Ryan encountered five more sec men who

quickly surrendered to their ready blasters, and died anyway. The companions

moved on with ugly expressions. Chilling somebody who had given up was a hard

task, but there could be no prisoners or quarter given on this night. Their job

was extermination; nothing less would do.

But each man looked a little older as he finished the security sweep, and

neither spoke, their minds focused on the completion of the job at hand and

nothing more.

Going around the blazing furnaces, the companions found a group of people

shoveling chunks of coal from huge bins and tossing them directly into the open

hearth of the furnaces. They were bare-chested and covered with soot and sweat.

Ryan almost lowered his blaster to set them free when he noticed how well fed

they were, and with no whip marks on their muscular shoulders.

"Blues!" J.B. cursed and cut loose with the Uzi submachine gun, sending a wreath

of 9 mm lead into the workers. The chattering of his blaster was barely

discernible over the noise of the boilers and the pistons.

Half the sec men died on the spot, while the rest dived for their weapons as

Ryan emptied the Kalash-nikov at them. Most dropped, but a 7.62 mm round zinged

off a thick shovel blade, and the snarling trooper managed to reach onto a shelf

and grab a handcannon. Ryan aimed high, while J.B. swept the sec man's legs with

the Uzi, the mixed assault peppering the man and tearing him apart.

Freed from the necessity of silence, the companions strode through the building

shooting freely, chilling everybody they saw until the power plant was a morgue

full of the dead and the dying.

Returning to the first boiler, Ryan stood guard while J.B. extracted a huge plas

charge and placed it directly under a main steam pipe and set the double

pencils. He couldn't place the plas directly on the pipe or the mounting heat

would soften the stuff until it liquefied and dribbled off. But with this much

explosives, a few feet of distance wouldn't make any real difference. When it

ignited, the whole building would be blown sky-high, hopefully taking the rest

of the ville along for the ride.

He did the same with the other four boilers, and spent a precious few minutes

barricading the doors to the power plant with heavy drums and placing a live

Claymore mine attached to a trip wire. Exiting through the back door, J.B.

rigged grens on both sides of the threshold. The two men tied the dark blue

bandannas on their heads once again, then smeared fresh grease over their faces

and melted into the night. The trap was set, the mission complete. All the

companions had to do was to leave and the rest would take care of itself. Baron

Sheffield and his triple-cursed sky machine were already dead and buried. They

just didn't know it yet.

FOLLOWING THE WALL, Jak moved from shadow to shadow, heading back for Mildred,

when a door unexpectedly swung open in the slave quarters, catching him in a

bright light. Instantly, he raced around a corner of the brick building, then

paused and drew a knife. Maybe they hadn't seen him. It could be only a single

overseer checking the slaves. Then Jak heard the sounds of boots on gravel

coming from both directions and knew he was caught. Sheathing the blade, he

softly worked the bolt on the Kalashnikov, a spare clip already in his hand.

Anything less than twenty and he could chill them all.

"I got him!" a sec man cried from above.

Lightning fast, Jak realized the danger and tried to dodge, but somebody fell on

him from the roof and the Kalashnikov went flying.

Head butting his assailant, Jak drew a knife and slit the man's throat from ear

to ear. A hand grabbed him by the hair, but only got a fistful of blue cloth.

Rolling free of the corpse, Jak stood and fired the Colt Python, the booming

.357-Magnum round illuminating the alleyway between the two buildings. The heavy

slug drove a blue shirt backward, with most of his face gone. Then another

assailant tackled Jak around the ankles, and he hit the wall, losing the

handcannon. A third sec man kicked the blaster away as a dozen more raced into

the narrow passageway. The albino teenager was knocked to the ground and the

blues piled on, driving the air from the teenager's lungs.

Partially pinned, Jak clawed desperately in the grass for his blaster, but it

was nowhere to be found. Cursing vehemently, he pulled out a pair of knives and

wildly stabbed anything nearby, arms, legs, butts and ribs. Men cursed and

started pounding him with fists. They wanted him alive! Somebody stomped on his

wrist, pinning his left hand, Jak sliced with the right, opening the belly of a

snarling sec man, warm blood and entrails pouring out from the ghastly wound.

That bought him some space and Jak pulled out another blade, doing his worst.

Screaming in pain, the blues scrambled to get away and he was free. Rising to

his knees, Jak stabbed a man in the groin. The blade opened a vital artery, and

the man paled instantly from blood loss. The neutered sec man writhed in agony,

clutching the blade that had removed his manhood. Jak tried to yank the knife

free, but the man's death grip was too strong. Releasing the trapped knife, Jak

drew another leaf-shaped blade when somebody grabbed him from behind. The

attacker released the teenager instantly as his fingers fell to the ground, the

razor blades sown into Jak's collar neatly severing them.

Spinning, Jak threw the knives. A blade caught a short sec man in the chest, and

he fell. But the other trooper took the knife in an arm and turned sideways to

kick Jak in the face.

Blood filled his mouth, and Jak spit it into his adversary's face, drawing his

last blade while digging for a gren in his pocket. The bombs were ticking; he

had to leave before this whole complex went sky-high.

Then something slammed into him from behind and the world started to spin out of

the control. A blaster fired, and he felt white-hot pain in his leg. Dropping

the knife, he clutched the wound and tried to shout a warning to the companions,

but blood was pouring down his throat from his broken nose and all he could

produce was a horrid gurgling.

As he got the gren loose, another sec man rose before him and shoved a rifle

butt toward him. Jak tried to duck out of the way and caught the blow on his

wounded shoulder. Pain erupted and his arm went limp, dangling loosely. Then the

unprimed gren fell to the ground from his numb fingers, useless and inert.

Jak tried to ran again, but the blues swarmed over the teenager, pounding him

with rifle butts and fists until there was only the sound of meaty thumps in the

Tennessee night.

WHEN RYAN AND J.B. returned to Mildred and the rope, the men found the other

companions waiting for them nervously.

"Trouble?" Ryan asked, looking out into the ville. All was quiet with no outward

sign of undue activity from the blues.

"Where's Jak?" J.B. asked.

"I think the blues got him," Mildred answered with a hard edge to her voice.

"Saw some muzzle-flashes in the western section of the ville, and then heard Jak

cry out."

"Can't be dead," Krysty said, looking at the dark buildings, a hand partially

raised as if feeling the air.

"Anything, madam?" Doc asked hopefully.

"Nothing."

Biting back a curse, Ryan glanced at his wrist chron. Twenty minutes remained

until the whole valley was one huge fireball of steam and shrapnel. Clearly, the

others wanted to go after the teenager, but they always followed his lead. Every

cell in his brain told Ryan to leave the teenager as a causality of war. Friends

died, that was a fact of life. Finnigan was gone, old Pete, Hunaker, maybe even

the Trader himself. Everybody died eventually.

Soft thunder rumbled overhead, the clouds sealing off the moon and extinguishing

its silvery light.

In spite of logic and reason, Ryan already knew the answer. Maybe Sheffield and

the blues could leave a friend alive in the hands of the enemy, but not him.

This wasn't a question of tactics, it was a matter of honor.

"Well, what the hell are you waiting for?" Ryan whispered, working the bolt on

his Steyr SSG-70. "Let's go get him back."

Chapter Nineteen

"Twenty minutes until the first charge goes off," J.B. said bluntly, checking

his wrist chron. "That's mighty tight."

"Buy us another ten," Ryan ordered gruffly. "Then get out. We'll meet you at

redoubt."

"Do my best," the Armorer said offering his hand.

Ryan took it and the men shook, saying goodbye in the only way they could.

Neither expected to see the other alive again.

"Want some company, John?" Mildred offered, stepping closer.

Smiling, J.B. touched her cheek. "Only slow me down, Millie. Cover your ass, and

I'll concentrate on mine."

She nodded, and he took off into the night.

"Gaia be with you," Krysty muttered in prayer.

"Come on," Ryan stated, heading toward the Quonset hut. "Let's see what we can

find."

Staying low to the ground, Ryan followed the tracks the teenager had made in the

hard ground. The light was poor, but he had been carrying a lot of explosives

and that made the difference. They were halfway to the hut, near the slave

quarters, when Ryan stopped cold and knelt on the soil.

"Three men, no, four killed," he said, studying the tracks. "Mebbe ten more. Jak

lost his blaster, was wounded, tried to run and they got him from behind."

"Still alive, then?" Krysty asked.

Ryan stood. "He's alive. They dragged him away, limping, then lifted him off the

ground."

"Probably fainted. How the hell did they beat Jak in a knife fight?"

"Mebbe they hit his bad shoulder," Mildred suggested, the crossbow steady in her

grip as she watched the shadows for any suspicious movements. "It was hurting

more than he would admit."

"Time," Doc demanded, Kalashnikov at quarter-arms, his swordstick stuck through

his belt in lieu of a scabbard.

"Fifteen minutes," Mildred replied.

"Where now?" Krysty asked. "The tracks go in a dozen directions from here. Which

one has Jak?"

Ryan couldn't tell and chose one at random. The boots were in the best

condition, so those were most likely the officers who would be interrogating the

youth.

"This way," he said and took off at an easy lope. Time was against them now, and

every second counted.

WHEN J.B. ARRIVED at the power plant, the noise of the pistons inside was

steadily growing in volume. Worried, he glanced through the filthy windows and

saw that several of the safeties had blown and steam was filling the building

from floor to rafters. The grime on the office windows washed away under the

boiling assault. The temperature inside was lethal. Without anybody at the

controls, the boilers were running away, building to an explosion of their own,

even without his charges.

As he watched, another valve burst, shooting through the steam on a white jet

and smashing through the office window.

Backing away, the Armorer paused and started to go for the trip wire of the gren

at the back door, then stayed his hand, turned and walked away. Even if he could

cut the booby traps fast enough, there was no way through that cloud of steam.

It would ace him in under a heartbeat. The plas would be okay. The charges were

out of the way of the direct venting, but the only doors were smack in the path.

The plant had to have been designed that way so that the doors could be blown

from the exterior and the power plant would cool down naturally without any loss

of life. Now it only meant the place was death for anybody trying to sneak

inside.

The bombs would explode in twelve more minutes, and there was nothing anybody

could do about it.

JAK LAY LIMPLY on the rough-hewn wooden boards, one eye swollen shut, but his

teeth were still in place. That had seemed to enrage the blues, and they

converged again to concentrate a lot of their kicks on his mouth.

"That's enough," a sergeant ordered, and the gang of men stepped away from the

bloody form on the floor. "You going to talk now, mutie?"

Although both lips were swollen and cut, Jak managed a smile, the taste of blood

filling his mouth. One blue snarled and stabbed Jak in the thigh with a fork

from the dining table. The teenager shuddered, but didn't speak.

"Strip him, then chain him to the wall," the sergeant ordered brusquely.

Jak was stripped, then hauled across the room and chained spread-eagled to the

brick wall. Cold suddenly washed over the teenager, and he found himself rudely

awake, his dripping hair blocking most of his vision.

"Again," the sergeant said, and another bucket of icy water was thrown over the

prisoner. Most of the blood was sluiced off his lean body.

"Now me," a sec man growled, and a whip cracked.

Jak flinched as a white-hot pain hit his wounded shoulder, the flesh swelling

red immediately.

"Gonna take his eyes," a sec man growled. "He cut off Digger's balls with that

fucking knife. I want his eyes!"

"Digger still alive?"

"Christ, no. I blew his brains out. Had to, he was my bud."

"Fucking mutie," a corporal snarled, slamming a knee between Jak's legs.

Pain filled his world until the teenager couldn't hear or see anything. Swirling

clouds of red cloaked his vision. Slowly, the mists faded and Jak vomited on the

floor, heaving and retching.

"Make you eat that later," the sergeant growled. "Better yet, make the freak eat

some glass and watch him die from the inside."

"Just set him on fire!" another man snarled.

"Talk, mutie!" a sec man demanded. "What are you doing here? Stealing food?

Trying to free the slaves? Ace the baron?"

"Are there any more of you?"

Summoning strength from somewhere, Jak pursed his bleeding lips and started to

whistle a happy tune.

Infuriated, a corporal slapped him in the face.

"Call your sister," Jak mumbled around the puffy lips. "Or small child. Either

hit harder."

Grabbing a chair, the sec man charged forward, but the sergeant shoved him

aside. The furniture smashed on the brick wall beside the teenager, splinters

spraying from the crash.

"You fool! How are we going to ask a corpse anything?" the sergeant bellowed.

"Get out of here and get a kid."

Smiling at the suggestion, the blue hurried from the room, glaring at the

prisoner as the door slowly closed.

"As for you," the sergeant said, grabbing an ear and hauling Jak around, "you're

going to tell us what's going on, or we'll have to get nasty."

Jak said nothing until the sec man returned with a small kid in tow.

"We lost most of the slaves to a mutie attack," the sergeant said, stroking the

trembling child. "But not all. We found her hiding under a pile of rags. Too

small for cooking or sex. What are we going to do with a little kid? Got no use

for her."

The little girl looked at Jak with eyes of terror as the sergeant leveled a

blaster to the child's head and clicked back the hammer. "Talk," he said.

Jak slumped in the chains. He had been tortured many times before, but this was

a new tactic and one he had no defense against. He couldn't talk. It would mean

the deaths of his friends. The child was a stranger, and his first allegiance

would always be to his friends.

"Talk!" the sergeant roared in unbridled fury.

Jak looked him straight in the eye. "No," he said with as much conviction was he

could muster. Maybe, if they thought it was hopeless, they'd wouldn't chill the

child. It wouldn't serve any purpose then.

The blaster roared, and something wet slapped the wall.

"What a mess," a sec man roared. "Blame yourself, Whitey. We didn't have to

chill her. You made us."

Staring at the monsters, Jak put every ounce of strength he possessed into a

long string of gutter curses, damning them in every way he knew, his ruby eyes

staring at the men and radiating a savage intensity that almost broke their

nerve.

The sergeant pulled out a knife with a serrated edge, turning it so that the

jagged steel caught the lantern light and threw a rainbow of colors across the

tiny room. "I'll make him sing."

REACHING THE LARGEST brick building in the compound, the companions watched a

tall man in a blue shirt leave the building through an electric fence and head

into the darkness with a gangly stride.

Ryan pointed the SIG-Sauer at the insulated wires touching the fence and fired

twice. The coughs were lost in the gentle mountain wind, but a pair of wires

fell from the sky, sparking briefly at the contact, then stopped.

A guard stepped from the shadows, zipping up his pants at the noise and walked

closer. Mildred fired from the ground, and the man staggered backward with the

feather end of an arrow jutting from his jaw, the rest of the shaft going

through his mouth and pinning it closed. Ryan fired again, and the corpse sat on

the ground and stayed there, as if he were merely tired and taking a rest.

Sliding through the fence, the companions reached the front door and Krysty

listened carefully. She held up an open hand with splayed fingers, then closed

it into a fist, next raising one, two, three fingers. Ryan gestured back and

forth, and she replied by pointing two fingers to the left, one to the right.

Nodding in understanding, Ryan stepped closer to the door and eased out the

half-clip in the SIG-Sauer, gently sliding in a fully loaded magazine.

DROPPING HIS SPOON into the bowl of stew, a blue shirt grabbed his blaster and

snapped the bolt.

"What's wrong?" asked his comrade, taking the corncob pipe from his mouth and

exhaling a long stream of smoke at the ceiling.

"Heard a noise," the corporal replied, rising from the table and heading for the

door.

Sitting on a low stool, a private glanced up from stropping a knife. "Wasn't

me," he said. "Mebbe it's Collette finally coming back."

"Bad for her if it is," the sergeant puffed, crossing his arms. "Baron wants her

dead now. Guess her special pussy ain't so special as we heard, boys."

"Fist, mouth, cunt, ass, it's all the same to me," the corporal snorted, then

paused near the door, his hand almost touching the handle.

There was an odd smell in the air, and he sniffed. Grease. Smelled like axle

grease from the wheelbear-ings of a wag. The private was spitting on the

whetstone sharpening his new knife again. The sergeant smoked his pipe

contentedly in the corner. Nobody here had been working on a wag today, so where

was the smell coming from? Then he vaguely recalled Collette saying how axle

grease made for a good stain if you were doing a nightcreep.

"Oh fuck!" he cried, and dived for the locking bolt. The door burst open,

driving him backward. A big man stepped into the room, a sleek blaster at his

side blowing silent flame.

The private grew a third black eye in his forehead and tumbled off the stool,

the knife and whetstone flying into the air. The sergeant cursed and stood,

trying to draw his own handcannon, when his nose disappeared and an arrow

thumped into his chest. The grizzled veteran slammed against the wall, and still

managed to draw his weapon when the big man fired his fancy blaster three more

times, the impacts slapping the sergeant around and around until he collapsed in

the corner on top of a bloodstained chair covered with chains.

Scrambling under the table for his blaster, the corporal grabbed the weapon and

rolled, attempting to fire from a prone position. The longblaster spoke once,

the slug ricocheting off the wall near a stocky woman who was entering the

armory holding a crossbow. Shitfire, his weapon was still set on single fire!

Desperately, he thumbed the selector to full-auto and he saw the woman cast the

crossbow aside and draw a revolver with amazing speed. He swung the long-blaster

toward her as she did the same. He saw her weapon spit fire first, then

everything went black.

Suddenly, the interior door slammed open, and Ryan stitched the sec man standing

there with a Ka-lashnikov. The body flew back into the room, and the companions

followed.

Sheffield was at a gun rack with six other sec men, hastily loading blasters.

Ryan and Krysty hosed the group with streams of bullets, bodies falling in every

direction.

Only Sheffield still moved on the floor, clawing for the blaster at his hip.

Ryan fired again, the floorboards splintering between his hand and the revolver.

"Thought you'd be wearing a bulletproof vest," Ryan said, hauling the man up by

his shut.

"Where's the whitehair?" Krysty demanded, nudging the baron with her

longblaster.

"Silas is dead," Sheffield spit, twisting to get away. "One-eye here chilled him

days ago."

Ryan slapped the man across the face with his pistol, and teeth landed on the

floor. "We got no time for horseshit," he snapped, breathing into the baron's

face. "So speak fast or die. Where's the albino being held captive? Long hair,

lots of knives."

"If you don't know," J.B. stated, walking into the room, cradling his S&W

shotgun, "then you aren't any good to us."

Glancing toward the power plant, Ryan asked the Armorer a silent question and

J.B. shook his head. Fireblast! Ten minutes before all hell broke loose.

"Fuck you," Sheffield snarled. They seemed rushed, nervous. Maybe his troopers

were on the way. He decided to play for more time.

"Where is he?" Ryan demanded, firing the blaster and scoring a bloody graze

along the man's head, then pressing the hot barrel against the baron's cheek.

The flesh sizzled from the contact.

"All right!" Sheffield shouted, recoiling, almost tearing from the awful pain.

"He's in the small room at the far end of the slaves quarters."

"Is that your prison?" Krysty asked, filling her pockets with loaded clips from

the gun rack.

"Interrogation room," Sheffield muttered, drooling blood from the side of his

mouth.

Ryan hauled the man upright and threw him toward the doorway. "Show me," he

commanded, jabbing the man along with the fluted muzzle of the Kalashnikov.

ANNOYED, THE SEC MEN stepped away from their prisoner, their knives dripping

blood.

A hundred shallow cuts crisscrossed his chest, warm blood running down his

stomach and thighs, but Jak still refused to speak. Once you started, it was

impossible to stop. He had been tortured enough before to know that for a fact.

And he only had to stay alive for another ten minutes or so. Just long enough to

see their faces when the boilers blew and the base was obliterated.

Unfortunately, something had to have shown on the teenager's face as the

sergeant frowned.

"This ain't balls," the sec man said in a worried tone. "The freak knows

something."

"Crap, mebbe there are more of them!"

"Got a rescue planned, or something."

"Sound the alarm," the sergeant decided abruptly. "Rally the troops. Let them

come. We'll blow the coldhearts to hell and back."

"Yes, sir!" a private said and threw open the door to shout when a thundering

gunshot shook the room and the sec man slammed into the far wall, minus a head.

With a supreme effort of will, Jak forced his vision to focus and saw his

friends enter the room with every weapon firing. Caught by surprise, the sec men

where slaughtered where they stood.

"Jak, my boy, are you still alive?" Doc asked, working on a chain.

As the wrist came free, the teenager start to slump, and the old man caught him

before Jak hit the floor.

"Hey…" the teenager whispered softly.

The clothes of the dead men were too bloody to use, but Krysty spotted a

bearskin attached to wall. Ripping it down, she draped it over the naked youth

and lifted him into her strong arms.

"Leave me," Jak wheezed, trembling. "No time. Bombs soon."

"Think we're going to die just to save you?" Ryan asked. "We have a ticket out

of here. Say hello to Baron Sheffield."

Jak looked up, then fainted dead away.

Mildred checked for a pulse. "He's okay."

Ryan glanced at his watch. Seven minutes. No time to reach the slave gate and

climb over. They were on the other side of the ville.

"Head for the garage," Ryan commanded, going for the doorway with Sheffield in

tow. "We need speed, and that's our best bet. Krysty, grab Jak's clothes there."

"Why not use the hole in the wall?" Krysty asked, jostling Jak's limp body as

she stooped to carefully grab what she could.

"Too good a spot for snipers to pin us down on foot," Ryan countered. "We're

driving out."

"The garage is right near the Quonset hut!" J.B. admonished. "When that baby

goes—"

"There will be no more sec men to chase after us," Mildred observed. "Hurry!

Seven minutes to go!"

Sheffield had no idea what was going to happen in seven minutes, but he already

knew he wanted no part of it.

As the companions raced across the ville, a whistling sec man ambled out of the

night contentedly munching an apple, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder muzzle

downward. Without pausing, Ryan shot the man from behind and kept running. "Move

faster, fatso!" he ordered the baron.

Pretending to be more frightened than he was, Sheffield did as requested, a plan

for revenge already forming in his mind.

Reaching the garage, the companions raced directly through the open doorway. A

couple of mechanics were tinkering with a wag and turned with their blasters

leveled at the invasion, but then paused at the sight of Sheffield. The

companions didn't hesitate and the men died on the spot.

Surveying the place, Ryan saw a dozen U.S. Army 4x4 trucks, five Hummers and one

APC, all loaded with supplies. The war wag looked in good shape even it did have

only seven tires. The installation of the eighth had been interrupted by death.

"One of these trucks will hold all of us," Doc stated, grabbing a roll of duct

tape off a workbench.

"Take too long to unload," J.B. said.

"And too slow." Ryan frowned. "We're taking the LAV. Right out the front gate."

As Doc started to wrap the baron's arms to his sides with the tape, Sheffield

stared at Ryan as if he were insane. The front gate was the strongest point of

the whole ville. How could they exit there?

Krysty tried the rear door. "Locked!"

Without comment, J.B. doffed his fedora and dived underneath the wag. As his

legs wiggled out of view, he cried out and started to fire the Uzi on full-auto,

the muzzle-flashes strobing from beneath the LAV-25.

Ryan hit the concrete floor, his Kalashnikov searching for targets, but only

spent brass and J.B. were in sight. Plus, a lumpy pile of bleeding leather.

"Some sort of egg sack under the wag," the Armorer said breathlessly, working on

the belly hatch. "Damn thing started to hatch when I arrived." The small door

yielded to his touch and the man wiggled inside the APC.

Seconds later the rear doors swung open wide, and the companions piled inside.

J.B. took the driver's seat and started the engines. Ryan slammed the baron into

a wall seat and buckled him in painfully tight. The man glared but said nothing.

Going to the turret, Ryan checked the cannon on top of the wag. It seemed to be

in perfect condition, but it was unloaded.

"Ammo!" he called down as the wag rolled out of the garage.

Using both hands, Krysty passed up a weighty roll of 25 mm shells for the

electric-driven Gatling. Mildred got busy strapping Jak across several wall

seats, then started to wash his wounds with the water from her canteen. Once she

got her med kit back, the boy would be fine. Other than the broken nose, none of

the wounds were serious, or the cuts very deep. The blues had been going purely

for pain, nothing more.

As J.B. headed straight for the front gate, lights were flickering on all over

the base, brightly illuminating the buildings and streets. Doors were flung open

by unshaven men with blasters, rubbing sleepy faces. Some started running around

madly, shouting orders and questions. The companions opened fire with their

AK-47s through the blasterports of the APC, cutting down the men mercilessly.

"Two minutes!" Doc warned, slapping a fresh clip into the Kalashnikov.

In a crash of splintering wood, the LAV plowed through the kiosk, men inside

yelling for only an instant. Then the gate loomed before them. Ryan concentrated

the roaring 25 mm cannon on the hinges, the HE shells chewing a path of

destruction along both sets. Shards of metal flew in all directions under the

furious bombardment. Ryan never stopped shooting until the gate was too close,

then he was forced to drop inside or risk being sheered in two.

"Hold on!" J.B. shouted, shoving the gas pedal to the floor.

The wag seemed to exploded as it struck the steel bars, the passengers thrown

forward as every loose item went flying. The front of the armored wag lifted

into the air as the sound of screeching metal assaulted their ears. Then there

was a tremendous crash and metallic ringing as the LAV straightened its keel and

rolled over the fallen barrier. The engines sputtered, and J.B. fought to keep

them alive as the wag raced over the hardened landscape, putting as much

distance as possible between it and the doomed ville.

"Angle away from the gate!" Ryan ordered, grabbing another belt of ammo from the

locker and struggling up into the turret. "Then stop!"

"Stop?"

"Do it!"

Sec men were appearing at the ruined gates, the muzzle-flashes of automatic

blasters making bright flowers in the night. One big man seemed to be struggling

to operate a LAW rocket launcher, which was exactly what Ryan had been worried

about. In the background, a Hummer darted from the garage and headed for the new

hole in the limestone wall, a .30-caliber machine gun spitting fire.

"We got to keep them inside those walls!" Ryan shouted and cut loose with the

cannon. The shells tore the sec men apart, and the Hummer veered out of sight.

"Are we far enough away to survive the blast?" Mildred asked, peeking out a rear

blasterport while bolting the rear doors tight.

"How should I know?" J.B. shot back irritably. "I tried to make as big a bang as

possible. Didn't calculate the kill zone."

Sheffield stared above his gray tape bindings, no longer struggling to get

loose. Were they talking about a bomb?

"How much longer?" Krysty shouted, firing her AK-47 out a blasterport.

Reaching into a pocket, Doc glanced at his antique pocket chron and rumbled,

"Any second now, madam."

Chapter Twenty

Buttoning his shirt closed, Sergeant Campbell stared at the outlanders herding

the baron into the garage, watching as they drove away in the APC firing weapons

in every direction.

"Son of a bitch, they got Sheffield," he muttered, grabbing a blaster from the

wall and running to the garage.

A group of officers and troopers were already there, throwing the cargo out of a

Hummer and piling inside the wag.

"Hop in!" a lieutenant ordered, starting the engine. "We're going to catch them

at the gate!"

Along with the others, Campbell's men started forward eagerly, but he held up a

restraining hand. "We'll be right behind you, sir!" the sergeant told the

officer, saluting.

"Good man!" the lieutenant shouted, and threw the Hummer into gear. Revving the

engine, the sec men charged toward the gate, steadily firing their blasters.

"Idiots," Campbell said aloud once the man was gone. "The fucking 25 mm on that

LAV will chew a Hummer to pieces."

"So what are we going to do, Sarge?" a private asked, a longblaster balanced in

his hands.

"Head for the slave gate," Campbell ordered.

"We'll circle around the whole damn ville and catch them from behind and rescue

Sheffield."

"Grab some heavy weapons," Campbell directed. "Take that one there, and the LAW,

too."

With the searchlights sweeping the sky overhead, Beta team got busy clearing a

Hummer of excess cargo, piled in and took off racing across the ville. Stopping

at the slave gate, a sec man hopped out, threw the heavy bolts and climbed back

into the vehicle. Campbell nosed the door out of the way with the armored grille

of the wag, then hit the gas and powered along the cliff of the quarry, steadily

angling westward around the high wall.

"They'll never see us coming," Campbell growled, driving with one hand as he

awkwardly shoved a 40 mm round into the breech of the M-79 gren launcher held

tight between his knees.

AS RYAN WORKED the bolt on the Gatling to clear a jammed round, there was a

sharp explosion somewhere within the ville. In slow majesty, the dish started to

tilt, then lean and finally to fall toward the ground, building speed. It

dropped behind the wall, then broken bits sprayed into the sky.

"That's the diversion," Ryan said, dropping inside the wag and bolting the top

hatch shut. "Get ready for the big one!"

Suddenly, a blinding light flash filled the entire valley, and boiling flame

extended over the wall and stretched out through the ruined gate. The companions

opened their mouths and covered their ears just as the concussion of the

detonating Quonset hut washed over them like a tidal wave, shaking the world and

drowning them in its power. The LAV was slammed sideways for yards by the force

of the blast, ripping open the top hatch, as a hot wind tore through the vent

and ports, stealing the words from their mouths. Minutes passed in strident

fury, but slowly the reverberations of the explosion faded and sound returned

with a vengeance as a rumbling mushroom cloud formed over the annihilated ville.

"Mother of God," Mildred whispered. Then she relaxed, remembering that any hot

ground explosion of sufficient size would form a mushroom cloud. It wasn't a

proprietary symbol of only a nuclear blast.

The winds continued to buffet them for several more minutes, smaller detonations

barely discernible within the roiling hell of the fiery ville. Daring to open

the rear doors, the companions stepped out of the APC and looked upon the

destruction. The men and wags at the gate were gone without a trace, vaporized

by the blast. Pieces of the stone blocks were missing, and gaping cracks ran

along the expanse of the limestone wall, the mushroom cloud hellishly

illuminated from below by countless small fires. It was unlike anything they had

ever seen. Only Mildred shivered, recalling the old vid of the nuke blasts at

White Sands and Hiroshima.

Then something bounced off the top of the wag with a ringing clang.

"Fallout!" J.B. cried, and started racing for the LAV. "Back inside the wag!"

The companions followed the man and piled into the vehicle, slamming shut the

doors, just as the first of the debris began to plummet from the tortured sky.

Bits of wood, pieces of brick, body parts, chunks of the dish and assorted junk

rained across the landscape, making the LAV sound as if it were caught in a

neverending shotgun blast. A cooking pot slammed into the wag through the

missing turret hatch, followed by a smoking toilet seat and a brick that

shattered into reddish dust on the dented floor. In desperation, Mildred covered

Jak with her body and cried out as the particles hit her back.

"Move this thing!" Ryan commanded, holding on to a ceiling stanchion.

Already in the driver's seat, J.B. fought to start the engines, but the diesels

were uncooperative. "Come on, you piece of shit," he cursed, adjusting the

controls, as a chunk of burst steam boiler melted doors and gigantic pieces of

foundation slammed around the wag with meteoric force, shattering the landscape

for hundreds of yards.

With a roar, the diesels finally caught. J.B. slammed the ten-ton wag into gear

and stomped on the gas. The LAV rolled straight for the smaller debris, rolling

over the pieces, zigzagging its way across the broken landscape.

"John Barrymore, what are you doing?" Doc shouted from the rear.

"I'm dodging the falling debris!" J.B. replied, tugging and shoving the steering

levers frantically. "It rarely lands on the same spot twice. By going from

wreckage to wreckage, we probably wouldn't get flattened."

"Probably?"

"Best I got!"

"Then haste thy chariot, Hermes!"

Soon they reached the rim of the debris, and the APC charged on a straight line

for the redoubt.

"Goodbye Shiloh," Ryan growled, removing his bandanna and using it to wipe his

face clean. Tossing away the rag, the Deathlands warrior turned to look at

Sheffield.

"Which only leaves you," he said, drawing the SIG-Sauer.

"Chill him later!" Krysty cursed, watching out the rear ob slit. "We got

company."

The starboard ob slit had been hammered shut by concussion, so Ryan went into

the turret to look behind. Sure enough, there were bobbing headlights. A vehicle

of some kind was in pursuit. In the background, the flames of the burning ville

seemed to reach the clouds, the black smoke rising to the distant stars.

"That's a Hummer," Ryan shouted to the others. "No prob. I'll chill it with

the—" The man stopped talking as he saw what remained of the electric 25 mm

Gatling cannon. The rapidfire was bowed in the middle, almost bent in two.

Just then there was a flash from the Hummer and something exploded on the rear

doors, making them rattle and loosening several of the hinge bolts.

Sheffield beamed in delight behind his gag, and continued working on getting the

rope around his wrists loose. There was a jagged piece of metal that had

penetrated the seat cushion beside him, and he had managed to steal the sliver

before the others noticed. He had already cut halfway through the safety harness

holding him in the seat and was steadily working on the sticky layers of duct

tape. His fingers were slippery with his own blood from using the razor-sharp

sliver, but wounds would heal. A bullet in the brain was forever. He had to get

loose quickly, before Ryan turned his attention on the baron for one last time.

Shoving a Kalashnikov out a rear blasterport, Doc cut loose, spraying rounds

wildly all over the place. He knew there wasn't a chance in hell of hitting the

other wag, but it would certainly slow them. Krysty tried the same with her

blasterport, but found it blocked with slivers of metal, more flying debris from

the devastated base.

Slamming a fresh clip into his exhausted blaster, Ryan glowered at the swerving

vehicle chasing them. He knew what somebody was doing below and heartily

approved. Unfortunately, the driver of the Hummer was already anticipating

retaliation by swerving back and forth, making the wag damn hard to hit.

Holstering the piece, Ryan called down, "Pass me a LAW!"

There was some rummaging about by the companions, then a sealed plastic tube was

handed up to him. Yanking out the safety pin made the sights pop up

automatically. Zeroing the aft port, Ryan checked to make sure it was clear

behind him, then placed the crosshairs of the scope on the veering wag, resting

his finger on the firing button placed on the top of the launcher tube.

Counting under his breath, Ryan tried to find a pattern to the driving, and had

to accept it was purely random. Whoever was behind the wheel was smart. But not

smart enough.

The LAV was struck again by a powerful explosion, and he could see the reflected

light of the blast underneath him. There was no contrail of flame, so it wasn't

a LAW, and not powerful enough for an Arm-brust or HALFA. Someone was firing a

gren launcher. The Bradley was a light armored vehicle, but it could easily take

a hundred 40 mm grens without damage.

The black night sped by without details to the landscape, while Ryan tried to

catch the Hummer again in his crosshairs, but between the LAV rolling over the

irregular ground, and their pursuers nimbly dodging, there was no way he could

track the target.

"Find some flat ground!" he shouted into the wag. "Give me ten secs of straight

driving!"

"They'll get our range!" J.B. shouted back in warning.

"Already got it," Krysty retorted angrily, as another gren brutally slammed the

LAV.

Squinting through the cracked Plexiglas of the ob slit, J.B. drew his blaster

and blew it away, clearing his vision immensely. A cold wind streamed into the

wag, but his glasses protected his eyes, preventing J.B. from blinking blindly.

There seemed to be more rolling hills to the south, but the land to the north

appeared to be more level. Taking a chance, the Armorer headed that way and the

LAV picked up speed as the ground leveled to a smooth plain.

Caught unawares, the Hummer stayed still for a split second. Ryan laid the

crosshairs on the wag and pressed the launch button. A dart of fire flashed from

the front of the tube, streaking toward the Hummer. Just then something

detonated under the LAV, making it lurched violently to the right and start to

tip over.

Already on its way, the armor-piercing missile streaked past the Hummer and

struck the ground, harmlessly blowing chunks of the hard soil skyward. Tossing

away the spent LAW, Ryan bruised his shoulder and jaw as he dropped back inside

the armored wag just as it slammed into the ground, skidding out of control.

Boxes were bouncing about inside the vehicle. Mildred was sprawled fully over

Jak, and Sheffield was dangling from a broken safety harness, almost free.

Snarling, Ryan grabbed for his blaster only to find it gone.

"Fireblast!" he roared in frustration.

With a triumphant cry, Sheffield snapped the ropes binding his wrist and dropped

to the opposite wall. On his knees, Doc turned as the baron slammed him against

the rear doors. Doc was astonished by the man's strength and realized the baron

wasn't a norm, but a mutie with superior strength. Gasping from the blow, the

old man rapped the stock of the AK-47 into the baron's face.

Sheffield merely grunted from the strike and pulled the huge LeMat pistol from

its holster. Shoving the weapon into the whitehair's face, he pulled the

trigger. Nothing happened. The baron couldn't believe it. A sec man in battle

with a dead blaster? What sense was that? He fumbled to find a safety as Doc

smashed the stock of the Kalashnikov on the baron's head, making him drop the

Civil War blaster.

Sheffield slapped Doc aside and clawed at the bolts, managing to open the door.

It slapped onto the ground, throwing off a spray of sparks. Without a pause,

Sheffield dived from the wag and hit the ground hard, rolling end over end,

hitting his head a dozen times before coming to a stop. Dizzy, the man forced

himself to stand and lurch away. Blood trickled down his face, and the whole

left side of his jaw was numb. He probably broke the bone, but he was free!

Somewhere in the background, blasters were firing, autos chattering as

handcannons boomed in reply. A man screamed in pain, followed by the dull thud

of a gren. The fight was going full force. If his side won, he would be safe.

But if they lost, this would be his only chance at escape.

Then Sheffield tripped over something, and, fumbling in the dark, was astonished

to discover it was the dropped LAW. Baring his teeth in a savage grin, he

checked the rocket launcher, trying to find the controls and make damn sure it

was in workable condition. He was armed now, and the tables had just turned on

Ryan and his pack of coldhearts.

FINALLY GRINDING to a halt, the companions climbed out of the LAV-25, steadily

firing their blasters at the oncoming Hummer. The wag bounded over the rough

terrain, blasters firing from both sides and over the windshield. Crouching in

the open rear door, J.B. cut loose with the Uzi, spraying the enemy vehicle. The

windshield shattered and a headlight winked out. But the return fire continued

unabated as the Hummer started to circle the crippled LAV, peppering it with

bullets from every direction.

Dragging a bag of grens free, Krysty started to pull pins and lob the spheres at

the attacking wag. She understood they were hesitating about a hard kill because

they thought Sheffield was still on board. However, if they found out he wasn't

anymore, the fight would take a sharp turn against them, and it was a disaster

already.

The grens bounced through the darkness, exploding into fireballs always just

behind the racing Hummer. A man cried out and fell off the wag, but it was only

one out of many.

Tossing everyone a longblaster, Ryan formed the companions into a tight group

and they tagged the wag with concentrated fire, until the driver turned off the

lights and engine. In near silence, they could barely hear the armored wag coast

along through the night and disappear.

Ryan grabbed Krysty and jerked a thumb. She touched her ears and nodded,

pointing in a specific direction. Moving fast, the companions grabbed their

backpacks and got Jak loose, then slipped quietly out the belly hatch of the

sideways LAV, putting it between them and the Hummer. Trying to buy his friends

some yardage, Doc stayed behind, firing two Kalashnikovs in an alternate pattern

to make it sound like several people were shooting back.

Reaching a safe distance, they waited on a rill for Doc to tie off the trigger

of a fully loaded AK-47 as a diversion, then exit the belly hatch to join them.

"Now we'll see how smart the blues are," J.B. commented, tilting back his fedora

with the barrel of the Uzi.

"Only have to be curious," Ryan said. "We'll do the rest."

A hundred yards away, the rigged Kalashnikov finally died and silence ruled the

starless night. On the horizon, even the terrible flames of burning ville began

to slowly diminish.

"THINK THEY'RE ACED?" a sec man asked, pausing on the ground.

A blaster in each hand, Campbell rested his chin on a forearm and chewed over

the possibility. "Mebbe," he replied hesitantly. "Or they could be trying to

lure us in closer for an ambush."

"Keep going?" a sec man whispered.

The hairs on his nape were going stiff. Campbell sensed a trap and crawled away

from the toppled APC. "Back to the Hummer," he commanded softly. "We got some

willy peter grens in the locker. We're going to lay down a ring of flames

that'll light the night. Then we can pick them off, one at a time, and save the

baron. They'll try to cut a deal at the end. We'll agree and shoot them in the

back."

"About fucking time," another man growled in agreement.

As the handful of sec men crawled toward their wag, the single headlight

switched on, bathing them in brilliant illumination. Dimly, Campbell could see

the one-eyed man behind the wheel, holding his M-79 gren launcher. How had they

found the wag in the pitch dark? It was impossible!

Somebody worked a bolt chambering around, and both sides started firing

simultaneously. However, the companions were shrouded in blackness, protected by

the armored body of the Hummer. The blues were in the open on flat ground. The

exchange was brief and permanent.

Mildred checked to make sure Jak was okay in the rear of the wag. Some of his

minor wounds had opened again, but the blood loss was minimal.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, wiping his brow.

"Blues dead?" he wheezed.

"Yes, they are."

The teenager gave a wan smile. "Then fine."

"J.B., cover me," Ryan said, walking toward the bodies. He found two still

breathing and finished them off with head shots.

"By the Three Kennedys," Doc rumbled in annoyance, moving to the other side of

the Hummer for protection.

Standing on a low rising hill was a dim figure faintly silhouetted by the dying

fires of the Shiloh ville. The person was carrying a longblaster of some kind.

"Now you fuckers are mine!" Sheffield shouted, and pressed the launch button on

top of the LAW. The device gave a resounding click, but nothing more. Empty. It

was empty? When had Ryan fired off the rocket?

Frantically tossing away the tube, Sheffield sprinted for a nearby rill,

planning to throw himself over the edge no matter what was on the other side.

Holding the SIG-Sauer in a steady two-handed grip, Ryan fired a full clip after

the racing baron. This wasn't the time for halfway measures. When Sheffield

died, the danger of the Kite was gone forever.

The baron stumbled over the uneven ground when a white-hot pain punched into his

side. He fell to his knees, then rose again and continued for the rill. He had

to quickly get out of the range of their blasters. But his blood was everywhere,

and the man felt terribly cold.

Cutting loose with Uzi, J.B. angled high, trying for the running man. Krysty

fired at him with the AK-47, and Mildred did the same, but he was out of range

for the blasters. Ryan unlimbered the Steyr and chambered a round, when the

night split apart with a thunderous discharge, a foot-long lance of flame

reaching out from the pitted maw of the Colt Python held in the bloody hands of

a grim-faced Jak Lauren.

With a gaping hole in his shoulder, Baron Sheffield flew forward with his arms

outstretched and hit the top of the rill. On the other side was a babbling

river, water to hide in and wash his wounds. Escape was only feet away.

Exhausted from the effort, Jak collapsed once more, as the indomitable baron

rose again, clutching his stomach and shuffling for the crest of the rill. He

was going to make it, going to live!

His long frock coat billowing in the breeze, Doc cocked the hammer on his LeMat,

which advanced the trigger a full half inch, then fired. Throwing flame and

smoke, the handcannon blasted a .44 miniball straight into the baron just as he

reached the rill, blowing away most of his neck. The Steyr spoke twice,

finishing the job, and Sheffield hit the ground hard, his head freely rolling

away to splash into the dark waters.

"It's finished," Ryan said, resting the stock of his longblaster on a hip. "Come

on, let's see what's salvageable in the LAV."

As the companions headed for the APC, Krysty nudged Doc. "Good thing your

blaster did a malfunk before," she said, slinging the AK-47 over a shoulder.

"Sheffield would have chilled you for sure."

"The LeMat is operating perfectly, my dear Krysty," Doc retorted, waving away

the volumes of smoke pouring from the muzzle of his black-powder weapon. "This

is a single-action pistol. You must cock the hammer first or it will not shoot,

unlike your double-action revolver."

"Sort of a double safety?"

"Exactly."

"I didn't know that," Krysty said, mentally filing the information away.

Doc smiled, displaying his oddly perfect teeth. "And most assuredly, neither did

the good baron."

Taking what they could from the battered APC, the companions filled the Hummer

with ammo, MRE packs and assorted supplies, then started the long drive back to

the redoubt. There was a lot to tell Dean once they got back.

EPILOGUE

As the door to the redoubt slid open, J.B. drove the Hummer along the antirad

zigzagging tunnel and into the garage. Immediately, the companions piled out of

the wag and charged across the floor. A dead woman lay near the stairwell door,

surrounded by a pool of blood. Sprawled on top of her was Dean, his fist still

clench around his pocketknife, which was buried to the hilt in her left ear.

"Son, what happened?" Ryan demanded, going to his side.

Weakly, Dean looked upward, his eyes a blazing red in color. The irritation had

to have been severely painful. "Stu—" He swallowed and tried again in a whisper.

"Stupe bitch didn't know the difference… between a tear-gas gren and a

poison-gas gren."

"Couldn't read the color codes, eh?" Ryan mused, helping the boy to his feet.

"Guess not," Dean wheezed. "I waited for her to come get me…and jumped her."

"On the bottom level," J.B. asked for clarification.

"Yeah."

"And it ended all the way up here?"

The boy nodded.

"Hell of a fight," Krysty observed.

Ryan gave a rare smile. "Expect no less of a Cawdor."

Smiling in appreciation, Dean then got a serious expression and walked over to

Mildred. "Sorry," he apologized. "But she shot up your fancy med kit. It's all

busted to pieces. Along with a lot of our other stuff."

Mildred tightened her lips to a thin line and closed her eyes for a minute. Then

the physician opened them and sighed. "Better to lose the med kit than you. And

some of the equipment should still be usable. I'll go check."

"Coming with you," J.B. said, and the two went down the stairs, the door

swinging closed behind them.

"Wonder how she got inside?" Ryan muttered, then spied a piece of paper covered

with numbers sticking out of her pants pocket. Retrieving the sheet, he found it

was filled with alphanumeric codes, most of them crossed out. At the top of the

page was a heading: From the desk of Silas Jamaisvous.

"Should have chilled you twice, you old bastard," Ryan stated grimly, pulling

out a butane lighter to set the papers on fire. Then he crushed the ash under

his boot.

Rummaging through the pockets of the dead woman's clothes for any further

documentation, Doc got an idea and started to check the labels instead. "Let us

take her clothes," he suggested. "We could only salvage Jak's camouflage jacket

and vest. The boots and pants should be about the right size for him."

"Save the bearskin for me afterward," Krysty directed. "I need a new coat, and

that hide will do nicely once I cut and sew it some."

J.B. and Mildred returned just then with their arms full of supplies, and the

companions got busy relaying the goods to the mat-trans chamber. The consensus

was that they wanted out of this particular redoubt as soon as possible.

Hopefully, the next would be completely deserted and they could spend a few days

resting and letting Jak heal.

Within the hour, they were ready to go. The friends climbed into the chamber,

and Ryan closed the door. He sat quickly and impatiently waited for the

electronic mists to take them someplace, any place, far far away from war-torn

Tennessee.

DAWN WAS BEGINNING to break on the Pennsylvania mountains, when the exhausted

barb decided to break his stance. Lowering his lance, the naked outlander waited

for the reaction of the strange male in the blue shirt. For two days they had

faced each other poised to chill, but neither struck first. After so long a

period, the barb could only grant a warrior's boon to the blue shirt. He offered

peace. Hopefully, it would be accepted.

Utterly astonished, the corporal could barely believe what he was seeing. The

damn fool was giving up! As the sec man watched, the barb turned and started to

walk away. Two days of standing motionless in a Deathlands standoff, and he was

done. The barb was just a yellow-belly coward and he deserved to die.

Curling his lips in a disdainful grin, the sec man leveled the blaster and

pulled the trigger. The Kalash-nikov fired once, winging the barb in the

shoulder.

Frantic, the blueshirt hit the ejector switch to drop the dead clip, then

fumbled for the bulging ammo pouch at his side. But the barb had already spun at

the traitorous action and thrown. Straight and true, the lance pounded through

the sec man's chest, busting bones and exploding out of his back, carrying

pieces of internal organs along with it into the ground.

Impaled motionless, the sec man exhaled and dropped the AK-47, hot blood pumping

along the shaft of the weapon. Watching the hairy stranger quickly die, the barb

reclaimed his lance, then took the longblaster as a trophy. Time was short.

Already the grass was starting to ripple this way.

Jumping from rock to rock, the warrior raced for the safety of the tall trees.

With a bound, he launched himself into the air and caught a low hanging limb,

hastily climbing into the upper branches just as ropy tentacles snaked from the

soil and dragged the gory corpse away to the mutie's hidden den.

The barb waited awhile to make sure the ground was clear before continuing his

interrupted journey. The machine was a great totem, a mighty trophy, yet the

warrior was a bit sad. He had come to respect the hairy stranger as a fellow

warrior, and assumed he had done the same. Was the mistake his, or some flaw in

the dead man? It didn't matter really. Only a fool forgave a betrayal, and death

was the only coin of the realm used for paying debts of honor in Deathlands.

Scanned by: ELF

Proofed by: Linsel