Книга - Hellbenders

Hellbenders
James Axler


Out of the ashes of the conflagration that savaged mankind two centuries ago, Deathlands was born–a tortured testament to a world long gone. Yet, in this kill-or-be-killed world where justice is the way of the past and blood is law, hope is the last refuge of the doomed.For Ryan Cawdor, driven by a warrior's instinct to survive, it's a world that exacts a devil's bargain: the struggle for daily existence in return for a chance to forge a better life.Emerging from a gateway into a redoubt filled with preDark technology, Ryan and his band hope to unlock some of the secrets of post nuclear America. But the fortified redoubt is under the control of a half-mad former sec man hell-bent on vengeance, who orders Ryan and the others to jump-start his private war against two local barons. Under the harsh and pitiless glare of the radblasted desert sun, the companions fight to see another day, whatever it brings…. In the Deathlands, the condemned shall inherit the earth…









J.B. was far from happy


He could see that Correll’s strategy was already falling to pieces, and he and Mildred were a long way from where they wanted to be—at the side of Ryan and the rest of their companions. The only way to get out of this situation was to be back-to-back with people they could trust. At least that way they all had a chance.

The Armorer straightened his wag and headed toward the gap between the rocks that formed the entrance to the arena. Ahead of him he could see the Summerfield convoy from the rear, but the front was lost in the swirl of the dust storm. Sec men were racing back to their wags, and those who were already mounted turned, blasters at the ready. He could also see sec men standing guard on the top of the supply wags, with homemade flamethrowers. They bore little resemblance to anything the Armorer had ever seen, but he recognized the danger with an unerring instinct.

“Get into position and hold on,” he yelled. “This is going to be a little tricky.”




Other titles in the Deathlands saga:


Pilgrimage to Hell

Red Holocaust

Neutron Solstice

Crater Lake

Homeward Bound

Pony Soldiers

Dectra Chain

Ice and Fire

Red Equinox

Northstar Rising

Time Nomads

Latitude Zero

Seedling

Dark Carnival

Chill Factor

Moon Fate

Fury’s Pilgrims

Shockscape

Deep Empire

Cold Asylum

Twilight Children

Rider, Reaper

Road Wars

Trader Redux

Genesis Echo

Shadowfall

Ground Zero

Emerald Fire

Bloodlines

Crossways

Keepers of the Sun

Circle Thrice

Eclipse at Noon

Stoneface

Bitter Fruit

Skydark

Demons of Eden

The Mars Arena

Watersleep

Nightmare Passage

Freedom Lost

Way of the Wolf

Dark Emblem

Crucible of Time

Starfall

Encounter: Collector’s Edition

Gemini Rising

Gaia’s Demise

Dark Reckoning

Shadow World

Pandora’s Redoubt

Rat King

Zero City

Savage Armada

Judas Strike

Shadow Fortress

Sunchild

Breakthrough

Salvation Road

Amazon Gate

Destiny’s Truth

Skydark Spawn

Damnation Road Show

Devil Riders

Bloodfire



Hellbenders




DEATH LANDS®


James Axler







If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

—William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice




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.…




Contents


Chapter One (#ubd4ca2f9-84ed-5040-8dcd-f87cea48ca88)

Chapter Two (#uac9b6364-88e7-5ca5-a8cc-0ee83b313881)

Chapter Three (#udf456de1-9530-55ec-b47d-4acb2f9f0595)

Chapter Four (#uf9d132f7-8293-5339-87d2-78895387a182)

Chapter Five (#u8469448b-1d88-50d7-bd54-660f9983624a)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


The swallowing mire of darkness began to clear. To Dean, it seemed as though the swamp mist on the blackest of moon-clouded nights had begun to lift. The darkness that was all around him began slowly to loosen. He felt life return to his leaden limbs, and most importantly, it seemed to him that his brain began to work properly, bringing him back from the strange worlds of unconsciousness and the deep, dark fears that surfaced during every mat-trans jump.

Feeling a well of nausea in the pit of his stomach, Dean rose slowly on one elbow, moving with care and allowing his tortured frame to adjust to the new equilibrium.

Dean Cawdor was the youngest of the band of seven people gathered in the mat-trans chamber. Sitting upright and risking opening an eye when he felt the spinning in his head begin to recede, the youth looked at his companions. His father, Ryan, was already on his feet, although still looking a little groggy. Dean resembled a younger, leaner version of the man, with only time and harsh experience telling in the few inches of height between them and the older man’s more strongly developed musculature.

Dean risked rising to his feet on muscles still a little shaky. He was trembling slightly as he looked around the chamber. They’d obviously all been unconscious for some time, as the disks that usually glowed before and after every jump were flat and colorless. He reached down and grasped his Browning Hi-Power, the blaster that felt so comfortable in his grip it was like an extension of his hand.

“You okay, son?” Ryan asked, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. The curling, dark hair and serious countenance were mirrored in Dean, but the jagged scar that ran the length of the left side of Ryan’s face, broken by the eye patch that covered the empty eye socket was courtesy of his brother Harvey, the now deceased former baron of Front Royal.

Dean nodded, then grimaced as the nausea returned at his sudden head movement.

“Take some time—who knows what’s out there?” Ryan said, casting a glance at the door of the chamber, which would open out onto…who knew what? Some redoubts they had landed in had been occupied, some deserted, some providing food and shelter, some leaving them almost completely blocked off from the outside world. Beyond the sealed door of the chamber—automatically locked once the old comp terminals put the mat-trans programs into operation—could be anything, and they needed to be fully alert before they could risk taking a look.

Beside Ryan, at his feet and beginning to regain consciousness as he spoke, was Krysty Wroth, Ryan’s lover, fellow fighter and friend. A tall, Amazonian woman, she opened startling green eyes on the world, still fogged slightly by the jump.

“That was a bad one, lover,” she whispered to Ryan as she began to slowly rise. “It feels like we almost didn’t make it.” She winced as every muscle in her body protested at her ascent. Her long, flowing red hair hung freely over her shoulders. Ryan noted this, and had a notion that outside the chamber held little in immediate danger: Krysty’s hair was sentient, a result of her mutie genes, and could foretell danger ahead. It would curl in tightly to her neck and scalp and warn of any approaching enemies, be they natural or the result of human activity.

“We’re here, and we’re in one piece,” Ryan replied, glancing across again at Dean, who agreed.

“Just about,” the younger Cawdor replied.

Looking about, Dean could see that the other four members of the close-knit group that traversed the Deathlands were beginning to come around.

J. B. Dix grunted and stirred, shifting from his slumped position until he was sitting with his back against the wall of the chamber. He reached out for the battered fedora that had slipped from his head and placed it firmly on his crown. Then he reached into one of the capacious pockets of his jacket and withdrew the wire-framed spectacles, without which his vision was dangerously poor. He placed them on the bridge of his nose and pushed them up until they were in place, and he looked around at the chamber.

“Mauve?” he muttered, almost to himself. “Haven’t been many chambers with this color. Mebbe this is a new one.”

“Good Lord! Mauve?” muttered a voice beside the Armorer, as Mildred Wyeth began to return to consciousness. J.B., who had replaced his hat and spectacles one-handed, disentangled the fingers of his other hand from Mildred’s and began to replace his weapons in their holsters: the Uzi on his back, the Smith & Wesson M-4000 shotgun with its deadly load of barbed metal fléchettes on one thigh and the Tekna knife in the scabbard at his waist. Ryan, who had a SIG-Sauer pistol and Steyr rifle, as well as a razor-sharp panga, already had his weapons ready. Krysty, like Dean, had checked and holstered her .38-caliber Smith & Wesson 640 as a reflex, without even thinking about it.

“How you feelin’, Millie?” J.B. asked.

“What sort of an answer you want—the truth, or one where I don’t cuss every word?” Mildred replied, her brown eyes showing the humor coming through the agony of awakening. She stretched, the gray pallor of postjump trauma showing through even on her dark skin. Her long beaded plaits shook as she trembled, stretching every muscle that she could persuade to work. “I swear,” she said, straining through the effort, “even getting thawed was better than this.”

Dr. Mildred Wyeth was one of only two members of the group that had firsthand knowledge of the world before skydark. In the late twentieth century she, as a working doctor herself, had accepted that she would have to have a minor operation. There was no real risk, except that she developed a severe allergic reaction to the anesthetic, and she was cryogenically frozen until the problem could be sorted out. Then there came a bigger problem: the nukecaust. And so Mildred lay frozen for more than a hundred years until she was discovered by Ryan and his companions, who managed to revive her. Waking up into an alien world, Mildred’s mental toughness had enabled her to cope with the sudden change, and her old life had also equipped her to cope with the dangers, as she was a crack shot who had been an Olympic medalist for target shooting before the world had been nuked. She soon found that moving, breathing targets were as easy to hit when your life depended on it, and her Czech-made ZKR pistol had become a part of her persona.

Mildred clambered to her feet, swaying slightly as she adjusted to having all her atoms in one piece once more. The part of her that had been a doctor still wondered what the constant tearing apart and reassembling of their constituent atoms was doing to them, but the part of her that had adjusted to the new world figured it was a problem that had, of necessity, to be low on the list of priorities.

Except when she looked across at the two remaining members of the group, and the two who always had the most problems regaining their consciousness and equilibrium after a jump. For different reasons, Jak Lauren and Dr. Theophilus Tanner were at their most physically vulnerable during the period of a mat-trans jump.

Jak moaned, curled up in a fetal position on the floor. Tendrils of his thin, stringy white hair were caked in vomit as it lay across his face, and when he opened his red, albino eyes they were sightless at first. His whipcord-thin body seemed dwarfed by the camou trousers, heavy boots and patched jacket that appeared to swallow up his small frame.

Yet this was deceptive; Jak Lauren was a child of the bayous, whose hunting instincts and ability to chill in a multiplicity of manners had been honed by his early life in the swamplands. He had proved his strength, speed and cunning many times after joining Ryan’s band, and his loyalty was beyond question.

Mildred hurried over to Jak, bending to check his pulse. It was strong but erratic. She stepped back as another stream of bile shot from his mouth, and his body convulsed in a spasm of retching.

“Dammit, you nearly got me, Jak,” she whispered as she avoided the vomit.

“Sorry,” he replied weakly, his eyes coming into focus, “try harder next time.”

“You’re feeling better, then,” she said simply, helping him to sit upright, careful to avoid the hidden jagged metal and pieces of glass sewn into his jacket.

As he adjusted himself into a sitting position, Jak took in his surroundings. “Made it,” he said softly.

“Looks like it,” Mildred replied, adding, “at least, I think so.” She glanced over to where Doc Tanner lay. Beside him lay his weapons: the silver-tipped lion’s-head cane with a hidden blade, rapier thin, made of the finest tempered Toledo steel. Next to it sat the ancient LeMat percussion pistol, with its double barrels, one of which was primed for a charge of shot, the other for a ball that was of an incredible diameter and density for such a pistol. They were old weapons, but ones that, in the hands of the skilled Doc Tanner, were deadly.

Theophilus Tanner was, like Mildred, one of the few people in the with any firsthand knowledge of the world before skydark. Except that his story was more incredible than anything that any of the companions could have dreamed, and hadn’t even come out of the mouth of Tanner himself. Some of the things they had learned about the man had come through chance discoveries in files and records left behind in some of the places they had visited.

Lying on the floor of the chamber with his frock coat wrapped around him and his white mane of hair obscuring his features, Doc could be mistaken—on glimpsing his weathered and lined features—for a man in his sixties. And yet he was only in his late thirties. Doc had been the subject of an experiment by Operation Chronos, a part of the Totality Concept, a U.S. Government project that had been partly responsible for the war that led to the devastation of skydark, and that had bequeathed the redoubts and the mat-trans units to those who came after.

Doc had been born in the late 1860s in a rural part of Vermont, and was a doctor both of science and of philosophy. A happily married man, he had been snatched away from his beloved wife, Emily, and his children, Rachel and Jolyon, by a random time trawl operated by the whitecoat scientists of Operation Chronos. He had fought and struggled, both mentally and physically, with his captors. Doc had become a problem, and the solution was to send him forward in time. Doc had been shot a hundred years into the future, ironically saving him from the fate that soon caught up with his tormentors, but leaving him adrift in a world completely unlike anything he could ever have imagined.

Doc’s physical frame showed signs of the stresses of such time travel, but it was his mind that was much more of a concern to those he traveled with. In flashes, Doc was erudite and sharp, but at other times he was in a different world than those around him, and his grasp on reality could be dangerously thin, the silken thread of his psyche perilously close to snapping.

As Mildred attended to him, he mumbled incoherently, his pulse fading in and out with his consciousness, as though he were actually close to just fading away in front of them. Without saying anything, Mildred knew that the others mirrored her thoughts: how many more of these jumps could Doc’s mind and body take?

And then, just when she thought that he was about to fade again, his eyes snapped open, the clear blue orbs immediately focused on her.

“By the Three Kennedys,” he whispered hoarsely, “I do believe we’ve arrived safely once more. Perhaps we should stick around, see what’s happening.”

Ryan looked at Krysty. The ends of her hair were wispy tendrils that began to flutter, as though from the slightest breeze.

There was no movement in the air.

Her green eyes caught his and fixed them with an intent stare. “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly, with an almost unconscious shake of her head. “I just can’t tell right now. I think there’s something. It’s not danger exactly, more a kind of…distant threat.”

The one-eyed man nodded crisply. He trusted Krysty’s almost doomielike feelings, and particularly the early-warning system of her hair, which he had come to know over their time together to be an arbiter of threats that she herself may have little idea of.

“Triple red, friends,” he cautioned, inclining his head to J.B. The Armorer nodded in return, moving toward the back of the group. They would follow their usual formation: Ryan would lead from the front, followed by Krysty and Jak. Doc, as the most immediately vulnerable, would be kept in the middle, followed by Dean and Mildred. J.B. brought up the rear, and was skilled in the art of keeping their asses covered. Nothing had gotten past the man.

And it seemed as though there would be little to trouble that reputation in this redoubt. Ryan opened the door and stood back. Exiting a chamber into an unknown environment could always be a risk. He lowered his breathing so that the very sound of his central nervous system seemed to deaden within, allowing him to better detect any noises that might come from outside the chamber. His eye flickered across the narrow scope of fire afforded by the door. He could hear or see nothing. Turning his head, he could see Krysty. Her sentient hair hadn’t moved, and her steady gaze told him of no danger. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at Jak. The albino hunter had also stilled his breathing, his every sense concentrated on detecting signs of life.

Jak suddenly opened his blood-red orbs, the fire in them burning strong now that he had recovered from the effects of the jump. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Ryan, satisfied that there was little danger, but still prepared for any action, tensed his steel-coiled muscles and eased through the door. He had the Steyr up and searching, but the area appeared to be clean. At Ryan’s command, his companions left the chamber and filed through the anteroom and into the comp control room.

“No signs of life in here,” Ryan began, “but what about outside, lover?”

Krysty pursed her lips. “Something, but not right around here. We need to keep it triple red, though.”

J.B. and Jak both looked up at the ceiling together.

“Sec cameras?” the Armorer asked.

“Uh-huh,” Jak grunted in reply. “Never know.”

As they both looked around, they could see the old vid cameras, but noticed that the winking red lights that usually indicated a working camera were extinguished on all.

“That’s good,” J.B. commented. “No one’s gonna be expecting us.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Dean said softly.

“Why?” J.B. asked, looking over to where Dean had wandered. The youth was near the exit door to the unit, hunkered down and examining something on the floor.

“Take a look at this,” Dean said, picking an object off the floor and carrying it over to the rest of the group.

“A self-heat,” Mildred said as she got a better glimpse of the object.

It was, indeed, a self-heat. Most redoubts had large supplies of these vacuum-packed foods, sealed in such a way that unwrapping them triggered a reaction in the packaging that heated the food within. They usually tasted terrible, but were always good to plunder from the redoubts as they were manufactured with the preDark sec forces in mind, and so had an emphasis on nutritional and energy value over actual taste. They were invaluable. During their time together, the companions had become all too familiar with the self-heats.

“More than just that,” Dean replied. “Take a look at it…a close look.”

Doc leaned forward, squinting as he tried to focus hard on the crumpled package. He extended a finger and prodded delicately at the package. He then withdrew his hand and rubbed ruminatively at his fingertip with his other hand.

“Now, that is interesting,” he mused softly. “I would not say that it was as recent as today or yesterday, but the remains of that self-heat are dryish but still with a residue of moisture. Enough to put it, in these hermetic conditions, as recently as a week.”

“Company, then,” Ryan said simply. “They may not be around now, but they aren’t going to be far away. Form up and we’ll move out. Hopefully they’ll have scavenged and then gone, leaving us with at least the chance to take a shower, mebbe some fresh clothes and grab some sleep.”

“When was the last time we got that lucky?” Mildred commented wryly.

Ryan allowed himself the briefest flash of humor before shouldering the Steyr and unholstering his pistol.

“Okay, people, you know the drill,” he said firmly as they fell into line behind him.

Ryan punched in the 3-5-7 sec code, waiting as the door lifted. Behind him, the others readied themselves for action at any second.

But the corridor beyond the door was still and empty. Ryan stepped out, covering both sides with the SIG-Sauer. He could see nothing along the hundred-yard stretch of corridor in each direction, one end terminating in an elevator, the other in a gently curving bend. He moved into a defensive position behind one of the concrete support pillars that helped to shore up the deep earthworks of the redoubt against the vast pressure of the earth above that bore down on the honeycombed structure.

“Seems quiet,” he said softly, beckoning the others to join him. “Reckon we’ll be better off taking the tunnel and working our way up rather than try the elevator. Safer.”

“Yeah, if there is anyone around, they’ll soon be on to us if we get it creaking into action,” Mildred concurred, looking at the elevator doors. “At least this way we can keep quiet.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to,” Krysty said. “Whatever the problem is, it’s not people.”

“Somehow, my dear Krysty, I find that not in the slightest whit reassuring,” Doc remarked as he peered toward the curve in the tunnel.

“Stay close on triple-red, people.”

They walked carefully along the corridor, rounding the bend in a formation that hugged the wall to keep as much cover as possible. As they did so, they all noticed the unearthly quiet of the redoubt.

“Something’s not right,” Ryan said as they paused. “Look at this…” he continued, indicating a part of the wall that seemed to have been recently—and clumsily—repaired. It was a large, irregular circle, and seemed to have been filled in and then not finished properly. There was also an old girder, salvaged from some other part of the redoubt, used farther along their route to shore up yet another section of the wall. And on the floor, surrounding the rough work, were signs of recent habitation—a water canteen left behind, some self-heats and a pool of congealed oil that hadn’t yet fully soaked into the concrete floor.

“Gotta be some people around to have done this—and fairly recently,” J.B. added. “So where are they?”

As if in mocking answer to his question, the tunnel around them seemed to vibrate through its very center, growing more intense in a matter of seconds until the floor was shaking beneath their feet.

“Dark night!” J.B. shouted as the wall of the tunnel in front of him began to disintegrate in a shower of powdered concrete.




Chapter Two


“Fireblast! What the hell is happening?” Ryan yelled as he tried to keep his feet. The vibration in the tunnel continued to shake the floors and walls, crumbling concrete dust and flaking plaster, a light rain of those materials making visibility suddenly difficult and even painful as the abrasive mist scratched at their eyes.

In the confusion it was almost impossible for anyone in the group to tell exactly what was happening. One thing was for sure—they needed to regroup and stick close together. Without Ryan even having to give the command, Dean and J.B., who had wandered farthest from the formation, began to make their unsteady way back toward the others.

“Surely we have not come this far to fall prey to something as simple and neutral as an earthquake,” Doc said, almost to himself.

“Could have been worse—could have been floods,” Ryan replied, although Doc’s exclamation had required no answer.

But it was Mildred who, in the flash of a second, knew what Doc meant. It crossed her mind, as it always did when they faced such problems, that they had taken and fought their way past so many man-made obstructions on their path, so many who would wish to chill them for no good reason, that it seemed as though the scales of justice were unfairly tipped for them to take their last bow at the mercy of the earth itself. Yet, given their location and the factors that had made the earth itself so unstable, was that not a man-made obstruction?

This crossed her mind in the time it took her to move closer to the pack, finding herself beside Jak as J.B. and Dean closed in. Doc, Ryan and Krysty stood a few yards away.

A crucial few yards.

The earth rumbled around them. The stressed steel girders supporting the concrete pillars that had stood firm for so long against the outside pressure of rock began to sing and screech with the torsion that made them begin to bend within the concrete itself. The large gaps in the surrounding walls that had seemed hairline cracks a few minutes earlier began to assume the proportions of gaping maws. The hurried repair to the walls that they had passed a few yards back fell out with a loud bang, tumbling to the shaking floor and breaking into a myriad of pieces that danced across the unsteady surface.

“Try to stay on your feet,” Ryan yelled above the noise. “Move toward the next level—mebbe it’s localized.”

As an option, all the companions knew that it was grasping at nonexistent straws. The intensity of the vibration here was such that it was highly unlikely to have abated if they could make their way up the sloping tunnel to an upper level. The earth shifts, they knew from experience, were stronger the deeper you went, but this was too harsh to suddenly drop away in an ascent of less than a hundred feet.

That was always assuming they could make any progress at all before the pressure of the shifting rocks caved in the redoubt tunnel. Every step forward seemed to take them three steps back as they tried to move on the unstable floor.

J.B. led the way as he was nearest the ascending path. The inclines in the tunnel slopes were always relatively gentle, to allow the internal use of some maintenance vehicles, so the ascent by slope would be of necessity slower than by the elevator—useless in the current circumstances—or by the emergency stairwell, which they didn’t have time to find.

Jak and Dean were at J.B.’s heels. Mildred hung back and stopped for a second to look behind, a vague awareness hitting her that she could hear or feel no one immediately to her rear. Krysty and Ryan were some way behind, helping Doc, who had lost his balance and crashed to the tunnel floor. Hoisting him with a hand under each of his arms, Ryan and Krysty had propelled him forward as he hit the upright, hoping to give him some impetus. Thus, Doc was coming toward Mildred at some speed. His balance still looked precarious, and Mildred took another step toward him in order to try to steady and assist him. Although she called him a mad old buzzard, and could be exasperated by his wandering mind at times, Mildred had a grudging liking for the older man—perhaps because he, like herself, represented an earlier age set adrift, and they were both strangers in this strange land.

It was a step that was to prove decisive. Doc was a few yards from her, keeping his balance well, the intense concentration showing on his face. Mildred was focused on him, which may explain why neither of them noticed that the wall of the tunnel to one side was suddenly beginning to break up with a spiderweb pattern that resembled a cracking glass.

Mildred felt a sudden rush of air almost simultaneously with the hail of tiny concrete shards that sailed across the breadth of the tunnel, completely obscuring Doc from view. Where a moment before she had a clear view of the old man as he ran stumblingly toward her, she now saw nothing but gray and darkness. Some of the shards that flew out from the main cluster hit her on the head and upper body. She felt a numbing blow on her face and stinging on her hands. There was no pain, but her eyes filled with blood from what she figured was a superficial scalp wound. The problem was, with the dust and concrete rain, the blood was now making it almost impossible for her to see. Her torso had been protected by her fatigue jacket, for which she was grateful. She had felt the concrete chips rip at her clothing, but they had caused no pain.

At least she was still conscious. She moved her arm to wipe the blood from her eyes and realized that everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Hell, she was even thinking in slow motion…a cold wave of nausea and fear swept through her gut as she realized that the blow to her head had affected her more than she had thought, and that she was now lying on the floor of the tunnel, mildly concussed but enough to slow her actions to a possibly fatal degree. The tunnel was vibrating much less, as though the pressure had been released by the sudden explosion.

And then the mist cleared for a moment as she wiped her eyes, and she thought that the blow had to have rendered her mad, as well as concussed.

For Doc Tanner, too, the sudden hail of concrete had come as something of a shock. One moment he had been moving toward the good Dr. Wyeth, who was holding out a hand to help him maintain his equilibrium, as well as his momentum; the next moment a force much greater than his own had hit him full in the body, arresting his forward motion and flinging him back, as though he had run straight into a wall. He felt rather than saw the hail of concrete that passed before him, stray shards like an abrasive rain that showered over his face and body, plucking at his clothes and breaking the skin of his face and hands in several places. The wind knocked solidly from his body, Doc collapsed to the ground. He hadn’t been quite as near the point of impact as Mildred, and so wasn’t as concussed. Nonetheless, time did seem to run a little slower than he had expected as he tried to gather his thoughts and marshal his actions. For instance, he had noticed that the tunnel had ceased to shake.

When he looked up and saw what had made the impact, and what had caused the cessation of the vibrations, he truly believed for one second that he had lost all possession of his senses.

For the thing that both Mildred and Doc saw from their prone positions was quite unlike anything that either of them had seen during their travels—or hoped that they would ever see.

It was moving quite slowly, which was hardly surprising given the size and construction of the creature. It was immense in size, possibly fifteen feet in diameter, and with a pale and almost translucent flesh that seemed to move independently in every part. The smell of the oozing mucus that covered and moisturized every part of the flesh was intense within the tunnel, filling their nostrils with its stench even though one breath had made both, independently, decide to try to breathe as little as possible while it was crossing the floor.

The giant mutie creature, from the shape that was just about discernible, and from the length that could only be estimated, as part of it was still concealed in the wall, seemed to be some kind of earth- or sandworm. In the glistening ooze that covered the pale flesh, large ring segments could just about be distinguished, and it had no features at the front of its body, just an open maw with teeth that were double rowed around the almost perfect circle of its mouth, seemingly made of matter little harder than the flesh.

Not that either Mildred or Doc wished to discover the truth of this. Both were still, partly from shock and their injuries, and partly from the sudden numbing fear of encountering something so alien.

The mutie creature had obviously been burrowing through the earth, and the tunnel of the redoubt was just a tunnel that crossed its path at one point. Now the huge hole that had been badly repaired back along the tunnel was explained. The casts of the giant worm also accounted for some of the material used to block the hole that had seemed to be unidentifiable: whoever had repaired the hole had used some of the cast to help block the gap and seal it. Who that could be was a question for another time. For now, the only thing that mattered was the giant worm before them.

The sudden and violent vibration of the tunnel was now explained—a localized disturbance caused by the approach and passing of the worm as it ate its way through the earth and rock. That would explain why the tunnel and the mat-trans chamber were still in one piece, and it would account for why this level was deserted even though there were general signs of habitation. If the appearances by the worms were of any frequency, it would perhaps be much safer to stay at a higher level of the redoubt.

And no surprise. As the worm turned its front end, showing its teeth and maw, it was an awesome and appalling sight. It seemed to have no eyes, but had to surely have some kind of sensory equipment. If so, could it detect their presence, and did it see them as a threat?

Standing back behind Doc, Ryan and Krysty had instinctively raised the blasters they held. On the other side, Dean, Jak and J.B. had done likewise. It was a tense waiting game. Would the worm attack, or would it just move on, sensing no threat to itself?

The stench grew overpowering in the suddenly cramped confines of the tunnel. The odor also carried with it the heat of the giant, elongated body. The worm was partially in the tunnel and partially in the hole in the wall, leaving them with little idea as to its actual length. The flabby, pulpy body had just flopped down from the hole in the wall as the burrowing creature had hit empty air, the flesh plopping heavily to the concrete floor. The oozing mucus would leave a trail in the creature’s wake, and as it was currently static, the clear, viscous fluid spread out from beneath it toward Mildred on one side and Doc on the other.

J.B. and Jak held their fire, the Armorer drawing in his breath as he watched the creature turn what had to pass for its head, eerily soundless for something of that size. C’mon, move, you bastard, he urged silently, hoping that it wouldn’t notice Mildred as she lay there, still a little dazed.

Seeing the creature move its front end her way, and still not being fully in control of her faculties, Mildred did the one thing that, under any other circumstance, she wouldn’t: she scrabbled backward, trying to escape from the mutie’s maw. If she had been one hundred percent her usual self, Mildred would have figured that to move would draw attention to herself, whereas to stay still would hopefully mean that the sightless creature wouldn’t notice her presence.

But Mildred was still dazed and concussed, and a deep-rooted fear instinct took over. She didn’t even scramble to her feet. Lifting herself on her arms from behind, and taking purchase on the floor with her heels, she scuttled backward crablike.

The noise and movement seemed to attract the attention of the giant mutie, even though it was impossible to tell how it could have noticed. The front end and maw moved downward and toward Mildred. With no eyes, it was impossible to tell whether this was a threatening, or merely a curious, gesture. But one thing was for sure—it was too close to be comfortable with it.

Instinct took over in Dean. He raised his Browning Hi-Power blaster and snapped off two shots toward the mutie’s maw. The slugs hit home, thudding into the viscous mass of the creature with a sickeningly slushy sound that was audible after the crack of the blaster shots. The creature obviously felt the impact in some way, however its central nervous system—assuming it actually had one—worked. It reared into the air so that it took up the whole of the tunnel, its foremost extremity brushing against the roof of the concrete construction.

“Hot pipe,” Dean breathed, “that should have taken out its brain.”

“Who says it has one?” J.B. replied sharply. “We need to hold it back while Millie gets away.”

Even as he spoke, the Armorer raised the barrel of his Uzi, flicking to rapid fire and bracing the stock against his body, his legs spread to anchor himself to the floor. He sent a stream of hot metal into the body of the beast, spraying it so that it rippled with the wave of impact. It thrashed its head, moving slightly backward and enabling Mildred, still scrambling toward them, to get some distance between her and the giant mutie.

Jak and Dean, equipped with handblasters that would need reloading more quickly than J.B.’s Uzi, took their shots with more care. Dean aimed for the end of the creature with the open maw, looking to place more shots within the beast. Jak took the end that disappeared into the tunnel wall, looking to rip holes in it with the slugs from the .357 Magnum Colt Python, the shots roaring from his revolver.

The creature showed no sign of emotion, made no sound, but was clearly enraged by this attack as it reared back under the initial impact, then ignored the repeated hits about its body and began to slither toward the group of four, Mildred now joining them on her feet, directing shots from the ZKR toward the beast.

J.B. wondered if a gren tossed into the maw would disable the creature, but had no idea where Ryan, Krysty and Doc were on the other side of the beast. The last thing he wanted was to bring down part of the corridor along with the mutie, thus blocking them off.

On the other side of the creature, Doc had regained his feet and had retreated a few steps to be nearer to Ryan and Krysty as the mutie moved in the opposite direction. Although it blocked all view of anything on its far side, the noise of the blasterfire and the direction of its movement made it totally clear what was happening.

“I fear that the creature will be impervious to bullets,” Doc said quickly, “and if it is a mutation of the species I believe it to be, then the worst thing John Barrymore could do would be to use a gren.”

“Why?” Ryan queried.

Doc looked astonished. “But my dear boy, a whole host of worms rather than one?”

“But smaller, Doc,” Ryan replied. “Easier to chill and drive off. Anyway, too risky to use a gren. Could bring down the corridor.”

“Then what?” Krysty exclaimed. “We can’t leave them.”

“No, but we can distract that bastard, mebbe drive it back into its hole if it doesn’t know where to turn,” the one-eyed warrior said, holstering the SIG-Sauer and unslinging his Steyr.

Krysty and Doc both agreed, and as Ryan loosed a round from the rifle, Krysty began to fire steadily with her Smith & Wesson revolver, while Doc gave the creature a charge of shot.

Attacked on both sides, its flesh irritated and torn, the confused giant mutie worm began to turn toward the group headed by Ryan, before another wave of fire from the other side made it swing around again.

Each side poured round after round into the creature, cursing it for the waste of every precious shell, but knowing that there was no other way to defeat it.

Still turning from side to side, the creature began to slither back into its hole, its maw the last thing to disappear. Its speed was the greater for it only having to slide back through the empty rock, its last cast some distance back.

The companions ceased fire as the corridor gave a little shudder and tremor at the passing of the creature back into the rock from whence it had come. Finally, both sides could see each other once more.

“Shit, don’t want that sort of trouble too often,” Mildred said, still shaking her head to clear it. “Bet you’re pissed at losing all those rounds, John.”

The Armorer gave her a grim smile. “We’re not too bad. I kinda hope whoever’s been here hasn’t cleaned out the armory, though.”

Jak inclined his head. He spoke softly after a few seconds. “Mebbe know sooner than want—hear someone on move.”




Chapter Three


“How far?” Ryan asked of the albino.

“Two levels up—coming fast now,” Jak replied, his eyes shut tight as he listened carefully for noises that the others couldn’t detect.

“And I don’t think they’re particularly friendly, lover,” Krysty added softly. A swift glance from Ryan to the woman confirmed this, as her sentient hair was closing to her neck and scalp, detectable even as he watched.

J.B. had been pondering as this exchange took place, and turned to Ryan. “If this redoubt is like the others, then the armory and dispensary are two floors up, and the next level is where the dorms and showers are.”

“And the kitchens,” Ryan added, nodding his agreement.

“Great.” Mildred grimaced, allowing a shaft of blackened humor to penetrate the conversation, “at least we can try to beat them to death with a cooking pot.”

Ryan snorted. “Yeah, great option. How much ammo we got, J.B.?”

The Armorer looked into the canvas and leather bag he had habitually slung over his back. The bag contained the companions’ spare ammo and grens.

Ryan knew what the set look on the Armorer’s face meant before the man even mouthed the words.

“I’d say we’ve got enough, in a decent firefight, to last us about five minutes before it’s all used. We need to find an armory of some kind…or else chill those coldhearts up there with every shot counting.”

“But we’ve still got the grens,” Dean said. “What d’you reckon?”

J.B. looked up at the ceiling of the tunnel, turning his head with a slowness that seemed somehow overly luxurious when an enemy was so near.

“Can’t risk the grens down here,” he said decisively. “There’s too many cracks already in the walls, and if there have been a shitload of those worms crawling through here, then the whole area could be shot through like wormwood. One gren in the wrong place and the only chilling there’ll be will be our own.”

“Guess that settles that,” Ryan said. “The amount of firefighting we did with that mutie worm bastard, they’re gonna know we’re down here. This has got no cover at all, so let’s get going. Shape up, people.”

Blasters ready, they fell into formation and moved forward. Ryan took the lead, with Jak moving up to join him and keep his senses alert for the location of the enemy. Krysty came next, with Doc just behind, reloading the LeMat as they moved. Dean and Mildred followed, with J.B. bringing up the rear, switching from the Uzi to the M-4000. He had more cartridges packed with the deadly barbed-metal fléchettes, and figured that they could inflict more confusion and damage at close range than Uzi fire. Besides, in such a situation he would have to switch the Uzi to single shot rather than rapid fire.

The curving corridor was doglegged as it moved upward, enabling the incline to be relatively gentle and for the slope to need less space underground, allowing rooms and units to lead off it. It was good for the companions, as it didn’t make great demands on their calf muscles, sapping strength. But the downside was that it had more than its fair share of blind corners, and Ryan kept the pace slow as they moved up. He kept his eye firmly on Jak, who would indicate with the briefest shake of his white mane that the enemy was still on the descent, and not around the corner.

It was a race against time. Ryan wanted to find a position that provided cover before the descending enemy came either head-on into them or was able to establish a position of cover first, and be able to pick off the approaching companions.

At each corner, the sinews and cords in the one-eyed man’s neck tightened and bulged as he concentrated every muscle, every instinct, every reaction to be ready for the onslaught. But the expected attack didn’t come. Ryan’s gut feeling was that whoever was in charge of the approaching force was of the same opinions as himself, and was playing odds on whether the oncoming companions were to rush straight in, or establish cover.

“Slowed down,” Jak whispered hoarsely to Ryan. “Not far.”

The one-eyed warrior assented. They had reached the next level of the redoubt, the incline on the slope leveling out onto a flat floor. Ahead of them a sec door was open, its red coloring just showing at the side of the wall, disappearing into a concrete pillar that also contained the housing for the sec door release mechanism.

On this side of the door, to their right, lay a dormitory, a shower room to the left. Both doors were closed.

Ryan signaled for the companions to slow, indicating the concrete support that arched across the circumference of the tunnel. They were to split into two groups. Ryan took himself, Krysty, Jak and Doc to the left, while Dean, Mildred and J.B. split off to the right, assuming positions that kept them close to the wall, taking advantage of the scant cover provided by the concrete pillar.

“Jak, think you can take out that room, see if we’re alone here—and quick?” Ryan asked.

Jak nodded, a grin splitting his scarred and pitted white visage.

On the other side, J.B. had guessed exactly what Ryan was telling the albino, even though the one-eyed man had deliberately kept his voice low, in case the rooms were, in fact, occupied. The Armorer turned to Dean and Mildred.

“We need to see if those rooms are free. Ryan’s sending Jak into the shower room. I’ll take the dorm.”

“I’ll do it. I may be quicker,” Dean said, his dark eyes glittering with the fire of battle. It took the Armorer less than a fraction of a second to decide. With a nod, he indicated to Dean that he could take on the task.

Dean and Jak glanced at each other across the breadth of the tunnel. Jak held up a white hand, skin almost pearlescent in the fluorescent overhead lighting. Three fingers were erect. Jak curled one, then two, and then the third, bunching them into a fist.

Dean caught the count immediately: three…two…one…and now.

As one, the two young men sprang from their stations behind the pillar, their companions ready to cover them should any fire be drawn by their sudden action.

There was none. Within seconds, each youth was in front of the room he had to recce and secure.

It was bizarre that many rooms in redoubts that didn’t house comp equipment or supplies like the armory or the dispensary hadn’t been fitted with sec doors. Perhaps, in the distant days before skydark, this was the result of a bureaucrat penny-pinching on the black budget of the Totality Concept. But all that it meant for Jak and Dean was that they didn’t have to punch in a sec code and wait for the door to creep open at the slow speed usually favored by the creaking and worn-out systems.

Jak didn’t bother with the smooth knob of the door in front of him. Raising one combat-booted foot, he used every ounce of strength in the wiry muscles of his calf and thigh to crash his foot into the area of the door just below the chromium. The thin metal of the door crumpled, the fragile lock, which was a simple Yale in design—giving under the sudden stress. The door flew back, slamming hard against the wall with a crash. If anyone had been waiting behind it for Jak to enter, then the force of it would have stunned them.

Not that the albino cared about that at this precise moment. Even before the door had reached the wall, he had adjusted his balance and taken a flying leap into the darkened shower room, somersaulting in the air and making himself a hard target to hit.

The fact that there was no light within the room was of no hindrance to Jak. In dim or darkened conditions his pigmentless red eyes were better adjusted to the gloom. He had spent much of his early youth in the bayou hunting by night, and his instincts had evolved to the point where it was possible for him to become almost at one with the shadows.

The shower room itself resembled a locker room, where it was possible to dry off and change clothes, the towels and soap being kept in freestanding metal cabinets. Through a narrow channel was the tiled shower area, where the actual showers were a series of self-contained cubicles.

Plenty of places for an enemy to hide, but also plenty of places for Jak to take cover.

The .357 Magnum Colt Python blaster was in his fist as he emerged upright from the somersault, his trigger finger resting lightly on the guard. He adjusted it without thinking, so that he was ready to squeeze off a shot if necessary. In his other hand, which he held palm up, lay one of his razor-sharp leaf-bladed throwing knives. As he shifted, weight forward on the balls of his feet to facilitate rapid motion, a shaft of light from the corridor outside caught the blade, its edges glittering. Without even registering that he had noticed this, Jak shifted the angle of his hand so that the light no longer caught on the blade.

The room was silent, and Jak couldn’t detect any sign of an enemy, not even the merest whisper of breath. He scanned the room, his eyes taking in the shadows. They were constant; nothing was moving in here. Satisfied that the room was empty, but still keeping triple alert lest the opposition be as skillful in the art of hunting as himself, Jak moved lightly and quickly to the shower cubicles themselves.

Normally he would have taken each in turn, opening the doors and investigating each. But time was of the essence, and at this juncture he had to marry speed with stealth, a marriage that was not always satisfactory to the equal use of both.

With a yelping screech that he knew, from past experience, would both frighten and surprise anyone lurking in the shower cubicles, Jak threw himself forward into a series of rolls, straining every thigh and calf muscle on the upward thrust in order to propel himself forward without losing impetus, and also to throw out one combat-booted foot and crash open the door to each shower stall as he passed it. All the while his Colt Python stayed focused and aimed at the stalls and cubicles as he passed them, finger loose on the trigger to prevent accidents, but the tendons like coiled springs that would squeeze on instinct within a fraction of a second.

If intruders were hiding in any of the cubicles, the force of the door being kicked back in their face, and the sudden appearance and noise that Jak had caused, would have been enough to cause them to attack.

Jak came up against the wall, landing in a squatting position with his back to the wall, his blaster and knife swiveling toward any point of attack.

There was nothing. It would seem that the stalls were empty. Rising swiftly and easily to his feet, Jak skipped back past the stalls, turning to face each as he passed, the Colt Python trained on the empty space, lest there was a lurking enemy with the patience and cunning that he possessed. But there was nothing except empty space.

Jak ran from the cubicle, sidling up against the wall until he reached the concrete pillar that provided shelter for Ryan and Krysty.

“Clear,” he said simply.

Meanwhile, Dean had been tackling the dormitories.

The younger Cawdor didn’t have Jak’s speed and sharpened hunting instincts, but he did have the quickness of youth and a sense of battle that he had inherited from his father, which had been sharpened by the time he had spent with the companions.

Dean’s approach to the closed door was more subtle than Jak’s. He didn’t have the acrobatic skill to attempt a similar kind of entry, so he opted for a different approach. Flattening himself against the wall to one side of the door, Dean closed his hand around the chromium doorknob and twisted it, flicking his powerful wrist so that the door was also propelled backward. Before the lock had even clicked, his hand was back across his chest, safe from any fire that may have greeted the first movement of the door.

Nothing came forth, and the door opened on a darkened room—not that he was aware of this. He hadn’t, as yet, taken a look. Instead, he took three deep breaths, concentrating his attention on the task ahead. He knew the layouts of these dorm rooms from previous redoubts. If the room had been changed by the inhabitants, then he had a problem. That was just a chance he would have to take.

Dean swooped low, turning and throwing himself into the room at an angle, his body crouched low. The trajectory would make him difficult to hit, and he knew where he was headed.

Luck was with him. Whoever inhabited the redoubt either hadn’t moved anything in the dorms, or never used them. Because the metal storage locker—in which spare bedding was usually stored—was exactly where he had guessed it would be, offering him some degree of cover as it rested almost snug to two walls. Almost. The gap was enough for him to squeeze into, covering him on three sides and enabling him to take in the rest of the room.

The dormitory was a large space with beds running in rows, small lockers between each bed. The beds themselves were high, with narrow metal shafts for legs that gave plenty of room underneath for any enemy to use as a crawl space. The room was rectangular, with no other nooks or crannies for anyone to secrete themselves.

From his position, Dean was able to take in the room at a glance. It seemed to be empty, and where the open door let a shaft of light pour into the room, there was an illumination that aided him immensely, casting a light over any enemy position while keeping him still in shadow.

Though it seemed empty, there were still a few pools of shadow where the light had failed to penetrate. These would have to be dealt with.

Dean left his position and dropped to his belly, the Browning Hi-Power blaster held in front of him. Using his feet, he pushed off from the wall and started to crawl under the beds, using his shadow cover to surprise anyone he might come across. Despite every sense telling him that the dorm was empty, he had to make certain.

It was a swift process. Dean moved through the shadows and light with ease, encountering no obstacles. The dorm, like the shower room, was empty.

As Dean reached the last of the beds, he rose fluidly to his feet and slipped out of the room, staying close to the wall as he moved back to where J.B., Doc and Mildred were waiting.

“It’s empty,” he breathed as he moved back into cover behind the pillar and indicated the same to his father, standing opposite, with a gesture.

The one-eyed man nodded curtly. It was time to put his plan into action. Gesturing to J.B., he indicated that they should move out from behind the pillar and take the empty rooms to establish a base of operations. And there was little time. The approaching enemy was now audible to all the companions, not just Jak. The advancing force seemed to be small, and was moving slowly. It wasn’t hard to guess that they were taking the corridor section by section, as well, not underestimating how difficult and smart their enemy may be. This gave the companions enough time to move, but suggested to them that they may be in for a small war of attrition rather than a straightforward firefight.

Looking ahead, both Ryan and J.B. could see that the corridor was clear at present, but about a hundred yards ahead of the sec door was a sharp bend that presented them with a blind spot. The sec door itself was about twenty yards distant, giving them a total of about 120 yards between themselves and any enemy sighting.

It wasn’t a lot of distance, and it didn’t buy them a lot of time.

Ryan and J.B. swung out from their cover in unison, J.B. clutching the M-4000 and Ryan holding the Steyr SSG-70. They would provide covering fire as Jak and Dean, followed by Mildred and Krysty, and finally Doc moved around them and into the empty rooms. Jak and Dean provided cover while Ryan and J.B. moved forward to join them.

The unseen enemy force was stealthy, but was gaining ground. The first group tentatively rounded the bend, risking the blind corner.

J.B. raised the M-4000 and fired into the middle of the group of three. They consisted of two men and a woman, all of whom were moving low, trying to present as small a target as possible. Two of them had blasters that looked from this distance to be Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless rifles, of the type that were sometimes found in the redoubts. The woman was carrying a 12-gauge, double-barreled shotgun. The Armorer took it in at a glance and wondered, at the back of his mind, how she had come across what appeared to be a Purdey, a rare and beautiful thing to J.B., and something that he had thought never to see, though he had read of them.

This thought stayed in his mind as the approaching enemy raised their blasters. He let fly with a cartridge from the M-4000, the explosion of the scattergun sounding large off the low ceiling of the redoubt tunnel. The air was filled with the heat and smell of the charge, and the load of barbed metal fléchettes found its target with ease, spreading out over the hundred or so yards to the target.

The three approaching people were hit by hot, barbed metal that tore into exposed flesh and ripped through the motley collection of clothing they wore. The man in the center took the majority of the charge. His scream of agony as the metal hit his face and chest was choked off by the blood that flooded into his throat and lungs as arteries were ripped and torn by the metallic onslaught. The force of the impact threw him backward, the H&K flying away from him.

Instinctively, the woman threw up her arms to protect her face, the Purdey raised above her head as she did so. Fléchettes bit into the area of her chest and stomach exposed by the movement, the thin material of her shirt and undershirt providing no protection as they were shredded to ribbons by the hot metal, ripping into her flesh and scoring the breastbone and ribs beneath. She crumpled, gasping for breath in lungs that had been lacerated by the barbs, unable to draw any air into her shattered rib cage.

The man on the far side was slightly quicker. He managed to loose off one shot from the H&K that hit the ceiling above J.B.’s head, dislodging chips of concrete and making the Armorer duck his head as the concrete dust rained down. But there was no chance for a second chance, as the fléchettes again found their target, taking out the man at the shoulder, ripping into flesh and severing tendons, causing him to drop the H&K and stumble in agony into the wall. Sliding down, he used his free arm to try to staunch the flow of blood from his shattered arm and shoulder.

J.B. pulled back into the cover of the dorm as the next wave followed. The enemy had dropped lower, using their fallen comrades as cover, loosing off shots that were intended to drive J.B. back rather than hit him.

Looking ahead, Ryan squinted, trying to count the number of the opposition. Three were down, and four had come into play behind them. He caught the glimpse of movement from the angle of the tunnel and felt sure there were at least two more in reserve.

So they had been outnumbered to begin with. J.B.’s opening volley had leveled the field a little, but the number of people lurking around the corner was an unknown quantity.

With ammunition running low and the possible numbers unknown, there was only one move that Ryan could see as viable at this point. He turned to Jak and Krysty.

“I’m going to try and close the sec door,” he said softly. “It leaves us trapped behind here, but at least those coldhearts will have to be the ones opening the door again, making them vulnerable.”

“We’ll cover you,” Krysty replied in an equally low tone. “But what about the others? We can’t tell them without making those bastards out there aware of what we’re doing.”

Ryan grinned. It was mirthless and almost vulpine. “Just cover me, lover. J.B.’ll soon pick up on it.”

With that, Ryan shouldered the Steyr and unleathered the SIG-Sauer. He would need a blaster for his own cover and safety while he was out there, and as he planned to punch in the sec code, a handblaster represented the best option.

“Okay?” Jak said, standing ready at the doorway. Across the hall, through the open door of the dorms, Ryan could see J.B. and Dean. He gestured with his blaster, and the Armorer gave him the briefest nod of understanding.

In the corridor, all was quiet. Uncannily so, given that there were seven people in the two side rooms, and at least nine people at the bend of the tunnel—although two of those were chilled, and the only sound that broke the silence was the low moan from the survivor of the first wave, now almost delirious and drifting close to unconsciousness from loss of blood.

The silence was about to be broken. Ryan, standing where he could be seen from the opposing door, indicated with a slight inclination of his head that he was about to leave the shower room.

J.B. and Jak swung into place at the edge of the door, and on a mental count of three both men swung out and laid down a covering fire as the one-eyed man darted from the doorway, under Jak, and headed for the sec door panel.

The sudden movement caught the opposition off guard, and there was a second of silence before the opening fire was returned. The enemy was torn between firing at Jak and J.B., or trying to pick off Ryan as he moved rapidly along the wall. He had twenty yards to make, and only a couple of seconds in which to do it.

“Dammit, he’s going for the door. Concentrate on One-eye!”

The voice had been low and drawling, but had carried a steely authority that cut through the noise of the blasterfire. Ryan mentally marked that down as the voice of the opposition leader as he reached the panel.

“Try to take out the panel,” the voice called over the fire, and suddenly Ryan found that the only threat he faced was that of ricochets and flying concrete chips as the fire became less heavy, and concentrated solely on taking out the panel on the other side of the sec door.

Fireblast, the one-eyed warrior thought, the man’s smarter than I thought. For Ryan knew that the closed door put the opposition at a disadvantage, and the best way to stop the door closing, at that distance, was to try to disable the mechanism rather than chill him. If the panel on the other side was shot up, then the door’s closing mechanism would jam.

By this time, Ryan had reached the panel and was tapping in the sec code, hoping that his luck would hold and that some sharpshooter on the opposing side wouldn’t get lucky. J.B. and Jak were doing their best to tilt the odds by laying down a covering fire that was preventing the opposing marksmen from being able to take full aim.

Sweat dripped down the one-eyed man’s forehead as he punched the last digit of the code, stinging his good eye and running into the empty socket behind the eye patch.

“Work, dammit, work,” he gritted as the last digit was entered, and the door began to creak into action, moving from its housing in the wall. Ryan flattened himself against the wall, sheltered from any real danger by the pillar housing the control panel. He had the SIG-Sauer leveled, barrel pointing slightly downward, ready to blast anyone who may be so foolish as to try to spring into action before the door closed. He just hoped it would close fully; otherwise it would leave a gap someone could fire through, and would make it difficult for him to retreat back to cover.

Jak and J.B. had ceased firing once the door reached halfway closed, unwilling to waste any more ammo than was necessary. The opposition obviously felt the same, as the blasterfire from their side decreased to the odd shot.

The door creaked the last few inches and came to rest on the wall, effectively sealing them off from their enemy.

Tentatively, the companions emerged from the two rooms to join Ryan, who was now standing before the door, able at last to relax the muscles that ached with the tension of battle.

“So what now?” Mildred asked.

“Ah, now that is the question, is it not?” Doc said, leaning on his sword stick. “I believe we are in what is commonly referred to as stalemate.”

“What?” Dean asked with a puzzled expression.

Doc favored the youth with an indulgent look. “Ah, my dear boy, it is something that comes from a time before this. Once, when men could afford to take time out from the affairs of the world, there was a game of skill and tactics called chess. The object, as in all games, was for one of the competitors to win. But—and here’s the rub—if both players were equally matched, then often the game would end with neither in a position to win.”

“Sorry, Doc, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with a stale mate….” Dean pronounced it as two separate words, and looked to the others for assistance.

“The old game survived some,” Krysty said quietly. “Mother Sonja and Uncle Tyas McCann would play for days back in Harmony. You see, Dean, to get in a winning position would be mate. To win totally would be checkmate. But to be stuck in a position where it was impossible for either to win would be stalemate.”

“And that’s just where we are,” Ryan added. “Stuck.”

The one-eyed man took a step back and surveyed the sec door. There was nothing else they could do now except wait. If their enemies on the other side wanted to attack them, they would have to operate the door and so give the companions the opportunity to take their covering positions and pick them off as the door opened. But they couldn’t go forward without risking the same. Their defensive position was secured, but at the expense of moving farther up the redoubt. Their only option would be retreat to the mat-trans.

An uneasy few minutes ensued on both sides of the sec door, as the leader of the opposing force was having similar thoughts to those of Ryan. Except for one extra fact that was bothering him intensely. How the hell had these people gotten into the old place that was his camp? For his people occupied the upper levels and didn’t risk coming too far down because of the giant worms and the damage they caused. It made the lower levels too unstable to live in safely. So mebbe there was some other way into the tunnels from the outside that they didn’t know about.

“Hey! You on the other side! Only one of you I’ve seen is One-eye, but I guess from the blasterfire that there’s more of you back there—you wanna talk?”

Ryan exchanged glances with the other companions. J.B. shrugged. Krysty gave a noncommittal shrug, but her hair hadn’t tensed any more. Dean and Jak wore skeptical expressions. Mildred shook her head gently, muttering, “See what the guy has to say. We don’t have to open the door to hear it, right?”

Doc smiled broadly. “I would say it was an excellent sign, my dear Ryan,” he whispered urgently. “After all, the fact that the gentleman is willing to exchange in dialogue suggests a certain intelligence, does it not?”

“Guess so,” the one-eyed warrior said quietly. Then, more loudly, “Okay, what you got to say? You started, so you go first.”

“Strikes me that we’ve got ourselves in a stupid situation,” the drawling, low voice said. “See, we live here, and when we hear a firefight going on, we’ve got to look after our territory, see that we’re safe. And you? Well, way I see it is that you don’t know who the hell we are and you’ve gotta see you’re safe. So we had a firefight and you chilled Janny and Ken. Cy, he’s probably gonna be okay eventually…time’ll tell. But that don’t mean we need to chill you to get our pride back, y’see that?”

“Fine words, but how can we trust you? How can you trust us?” Ryan queried.

“Fair point, my friend,” the voice said.

“I’m not your friend yet,” Ryan countered. “I don’t like shouting through this bastard thick door, so let’s get to it.”

“Okay,” came the response. Yet, despite the thickness of the metal sec door, the man on the other side didn’t seem to have to shout for his voice to be heard clearly. “Let me ask you something, stranger. I don’t think you came in through some tunnel that we don’t know about.”

“That’s not a question,” Ryan countered.

“No. So how about if I ask you if you got into the tunnels through that place where all the colored lights flicker and change all the time?”

Ryan was momentarily stunned to silence. Had this man guessed the secret of the mat-trans that they were among the few to know?

“Why do you say that?” Ryan asked slowly.

“Because it’s old tech and it still works…must, otherwise the lights wouldn’t be working. We’ve got some idea of how bits work, but the rest of it is still a mystery.”

Ryan paused before answering. A lot would hinge on his next few words. He obviously paused a little too long, as his opposing number was spurred to speech, perhaps making Ryan’s decision easier.

“Hell, don’t clam up on me now,” the low drawl said with a vaguely sardonic undercurrent. “Listen, I’m kind of like the baron around here, though we’re too small to be a ville. The name’s Joe Correll, and I’ll tell you as much as this. We know all this stuff comes from before skydark, and we can tell that a lot of it here still works…but how to work it, and what it does? Well, we sure as shit don’t know that. But we know where we can get what we need to know, and I’m figuring that mebbe you know something, if you came here by using some of it. But mebbe you need to know more. See, I can’t see any reason you’d come to this shithole unless it was an accident. So mebbe we can help each other. Sure gotta be better than this or a chilling, and it’ll come to that if we go on this way.”

Ryan bit the skin on the end of his thumb in concentration. “Okay, listen up,” he finally said. “We know a little—enough to travel using some old tech, and mebbe to use some of the old comps. But there’s a lot we half know, and mebbe if we join you and find out some more, then we can get to use a lot of the old tech to our advantage. So I guess I’m saying yes, Joe Correll.” He looked at his people as he spoke. They all assented.

“Okay, then,” Correll drawled. “I’m gonna open the door. We all keep our blasters to hand, but we hold fire. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the one-eyed man agreed, glancing at his companions.

“Okay…I’m hitting the numbers now,” Correll said. “Get ready.”

The door began to move, and in their state of tension it seemed to take an eternity to open.




Chapter Four


The door had reached three-quarters of the way to the tunnel ceiling, pulled three-quarters of the way across the breadth, before their opposition became fully visible, and Ryan and Joe Correll came face-to-face.

Correll stood about the same height as Ryan, but was rangy and lean, with the appearance of one who had, at one point, been malnourished and had found it hard to build up his muscles once more. This impression was born out by his face: it was long, with gaunt, high cheekbones that only accentuated the sallow skin stretched tight. His eyes were deep-set, with a darkness underneath them that made his steady, staring gaze seem all the more intent. His nose was scarred and had been broken several times, and the long, thin blond hair that he wore tied back into a ponytail was an ash blond, flecked with more gray than should have been evident in a man of his years. He wore old, tattered fatigues that hung on his lean frame, and a Heckler & Koch was hanging by his side, still grasped in his hand but with the barrel pointing downward.

His eyes met Ryan’s gaze, and locked there. The one-eyed man knew immediately that Correll would tear them apart if they crossed him, but would play by agreed rules if they were going his way. He would be a good ally, but a dangerous enemy.

Correll was thinking much the same thing as he sized up Ryan. He was impressed by the obvious strength of the man, and the fact that he had lost an eye, had a jagged scar to prove it had been a tough fight. That he had obviously chilled the opponent and was still here was proof of his abilities. Correll’s gaze flickered over the rest of the companions. Mildred fascinated him, as he hadn’t seen a black woman for many a year; Krysty was an obvious beauty, and looked strong; the white one showed the signs of many battles, and from his size Correll would have expected him to have been chilled long ago—obviously a good fighter; the old man seemed crazy, smiling to himself as he stood there with an ancient blaster in his fist—yet he had to be able to look after himself. Likewise the boy, who was barely in his teens, yet had to be a good fighter, as this group was far too small to carry any passengers. Besides, he looked like One-eye, mebbe a son, so he probably learned to fight from his father.

They were a small group, and looked too odd to have taken on and outsmarted his people. So mebbe they could help after all in the task ahead.

Ryan noticed the movement of Correll’s gaze, and wondered what was going on behind the impassive countenance. He heard a small grunt in the back of Correll’s throat, the slightest nod, as if to himself, and then Correll spoke.

“So what do I call you, One-eye? You know me, after all.”

Ryan answered simply with his name, taking the opportunity to look over the rest of the company who were behind Correll. There had been a party of ten after all, then, as there were six people lining up behind the leader. Five of them were men, all looking lean and ready to fight. The sole woman was stouter, with a better developed musculature. She looked to be of Native American heritage, as her skin had a darker tint, and her hair was black, like her glittering eyes. All of them were dressed in better fatigues, camou and old military clothes than their leader, which made a part of Ryan wonder why Correll still wore his old rags. They all had the wariness that Ryan could feel in his own people, yet they had all relaxed the instant Correll had spoken, as though they trusted his every word, as well as following it. They carried Uzis, H&Ks, and one had an M-4000 like the one J.B. carried. Their clothes and blasters suggested that they had been in this redoubt for some time, and had made full use of what had been left behind after skydark.

In the distance, back at the bend of the tunnel, Ryan could see the two chilled corpses, and the wounded man, now semiconscious.

“Let Mildred go and see to your man,” Ryan added after he had spoken his name, indicating the woman with an inclination of his head. “She knows a lot of healing skills and understands some of the old medicines. Let her take him to the med lab here, she may be able to help him.”

Correll furrowed his brow. “Med lab?” He pronounced the words as though they were completely foreign, rolling them around his tongue.

Mildred spoke for the first time. “Med lab—it’s usually on the same level as the armory. Look, a couple of your people carry him, and I’ll see if I can help him.”

Correll gave Mildred a penetrating stare that, for one moment, completely fazed her. She felt a shudder run down her spine as those deep-set eyes seemed to search into her. Then he nodded, turning his head to two of the men behind.

“Lonnie, Travis—help this here lady to take Cy to the med lab, see if she can help him. Let her lead.”

He had, once again, pronounced the words “med lab” as though they were something strange and freakish, but his voice still carried authority. Two of the men—a tall, crop-haired guy and a slightly shorter guy with longer, red hair—nodded, shouldered their blasters and moved back to where Cy was lying. Mildred, with the briefest of glances at Ryan and J.B., holstered her ZKR, which had been in her hand, pointing down, as were all the blasters, and hurried past the one-eyed man and his counterpart, moving through the other people to reach the injured man.

The two men assigned to assist her were about to lift him, but she stayed them with a simple “Wait, please,” and examined the prone body as they hovered over her. It was a bad injury, and she couldn’t guarantee saving the use of the arm, but as long as the refrigeration on the blood-and-plasma bank in the redoubt was still working, she may be able to keep him alive. “Okay, let’s go,” she said firmly, establishing her authority and leading Lonnie and Travis, carrying the prone Cy, out of sight around the tunnel bend and in search of the med lab.

Correll had turned to watch them go, and now he returned his gaze to Ryan.

“So, Ryan Cawdor, we know who we are. Introduce me to the rest of your people, and then we can go back to the living quarters and you can meet my people.”

Correll slowly shouldered his H&K and extended his hand in a gesture. Ryan holstered the SIG-Sauer and grasped Correll’s hand. The grip was firm and dry.

“That’s a deal,” Ryan said.

After the introductions had been made, the two forces joined up and moved out of the lower tunnel, walking up toward where the redoubt dwellers had made their home. Correll explained on the way that his people had learned early on that the worms liked to dig deep in these parts, and apart from one or two isolated incidents they had never experienced any problems with the giant muties on the upper levels. They rarely used the lower levels, just venturing down when necessary to use the shower room, or take supplies, or effect repairs.

Jak and Dean volunteered themselves to help the woman and one of the other men carry the corpses of those they had chilled up to the higher levels, where they would be disposed of. The man and woman still seemed to have a degree of hostility over the chilling, even though they abided by their leader’s word, and seemed uneasy at Jak and Dean assisting. But both felt it was a necessary gesture and carried on regardless.

They passed the med lab, and Correll stopped to see what was going on.

Mildred turned as the door opened. Travis was assisting her, his red hair pushed back from his face as he leaned over the prone Cy, but Lonnie had been overcome by seeing the state of Cy’s wound closeup, and was standing some distance away.

“What’s going on?” Correll asked.

Mildred, bent over the recumbent man’s shoulder, spared Correll the briefest of looks. “Hard to say at the moment,” she replied as she returned to her work. “There was some superficial flesh wounding from the fléchettes, but the real damage is around the joint itself. I’ve cleaned up the rest of his arm, and I’m looking at the tendons and muscle damage, see what I can do. Thing is, I’m no surgeon. I can patch him up, but he may not be able to use the arm too well.”

Correll nodded, as much to himself as anyone else. “That is as may be, and there is nothing we can do about it. I thank you for your help. We’ll leave you to your task.”

They left the med lab and rejoined the rest of the party, waiting outside.

“Tell me, my dear sir,” Doc asked, taking advantage of this unexpected break, “how did you come to be living here?”

“In good time, Dr. Tanner, in good time,” Correll said. “First we must do what is necessary.”

They reached the upper level of the redoubt, and went past an area that was obviously where the inhabitants had made their home. There were several people about, and they stopped to stare as Correll led the party past them. No one spoke, and a hush descended on the level.

“It’s not exactly the best way for them to get acquainted with us, is it?” Krysty whispered to Ryan. “They’re really going to love us for this.”

Correll looked back at her. “They’ll know the truth soon enough. First we do this.”

There was an edge to his voice that brooked no argument, and Ryan felt a nagging doubt begin to creep at the back of his mind. The low drawl in which Correll spoke barely changed in pitch or volume, yet was stopped from being a monotone by an underlying edge. Ryan had the vaguest notion that the edge in the man’s voice was that of madness. He was driven by something, but the one-eyed warrior had yet to find out exactly what that something was.

They walked on, past the area of habitation and up toward the main ramp and double set of sec doors leading to the outside. Correll punched in a code and opened the first set, leading them through. He paused before the second set, which opened onto the outside.

“Blasters ready,” he intoned. “That means you, as well, Ryan Cawdor, and your people. Every time that we go outside, we need to be triple-red aware.”

“Your enemies, or just muties and wildlife?” Ryan asked.

The ghost of a smile flickered across Correll’s face. “It’s all wildlife out there, friend, and they’re all our enemies.”

He punched in the final code and pressed a lever, the outer sec doors lifting to reveal to Ryan and the companions the world outside this particular redoubt.

In truth, it was hard to tell what the outside was like, as the fluorescent lighting inside made it hard for their eyes to adjust to the gloom outside. Although both J.B. and Ryan had wrist chrons, it was useless for them to use those as they had no idea whereabouts in the they had landed. The Armorer had hoped that a look at the terrain would give him an idea, as he was usually accurate at judging their general location by the topography of the land. But wherever they were, it seemed to be late evening, and in the cloudless sky overhead there were stars beginning to show through the twilight.

“We must hurry,” Correll said, breaking into their respective thoughts. “The open door will be visible for some way. Come…”

He led most of the party outside and onto the bare rock around. Two of his sec people stayed within the boundary of the redoubt, and at a nod from their leader, closed the sec door.

“I don’t want the inside visible any longer than necessary when it’s dark,” he offered by way of explanation before leading them across the rock floor to an incline.

Looking around, the companions could tell that the redoubt was recessed into the side of a mountain that had a series of graded ridges running up the side. These had been fashioned into a road at one time, as there were still traces of blacktop material, but an earth movement—either the earth itself or possibly even the activities of the mutie worms—had caused much of the rock to fall away.

Correll stopped and pointed over the incline. It began gently, then after a few yards fell away into nothing. He said, “See, everyone who comes near figures that there was something leading up here, and then it all went. But that ain’t true. We only discovered this place by chance and fate, and then because there’s another road that moves from the other side of the hill and goes up then down before it gets to here. See, you take the long route and sometimes you get what you want, whereas you always want the quickest, then you get fucked off.”

Ryan looked at the road that ran in the opposite direction from the sheltered entrance to the redoubt. It certainly ran up, and then out of sight around the side of the mountain. But it was obvious to the one-eyed man that Correll was talking about something else when he mouthed the last sentence. Something that had to do with the secrets of the old tech that he believed they could find.

J.B., meanwhile, was taking a good look around, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, trying to work out where they could be in the Deathlands. The mountain on which they stood was one of a few scattered for as far as he could see. He could turn 180 degrees and get a good view of what the terrain was like. It seemed to be scattered mountains, with desert in between. Although the air was cold now, he guessed that it could be mighty hot at the peak of the day. Enough that there was little scrub and vegetation around.

Correll disturbed his musings.

“Time to consign these friends to the past,” he said sadly. “Fate said their time had come, and you can’t argue with that.”

The man and woman carrying one end each of the chilled corpses moved toward the incline where Correll was standing. Jak and Dean, each grasping the other end of a corpse, followed, not knowing what was expected of them. In turn, each of the corpses was tossed over the side of the incline. Dean lingered to take a look below. It was impossible to see what was at the bottom of the mountain, as the darkness and shadow closed in. He looked back toward Correll, an unspoken question forming.

“There’s mutie dogs and jackals down there, other kinds of rodent. They pick the bones clean. Ain’t much clue left of us being here, ain’t no chance of any illness spreading, and you feed the fuckers and they don’t bother us much. Serves a lot of purposes.”

Correll shrugged and turned back to the sec door, walking rapidly up the rock floor to where the metal door, its camou paint barely touched by the rad-blasted years, was silent and still. The rest of his party followed, with Ryan and his companions following a fraction of a second later.

Correll rapped on the door with his knuckles. It barely sounded on the thick metal, but the pair on the other side of the door had to have been listening for his return and signal, as the door immediately began to rise. Correll entered while it was still rising to its full height, and was greeted by Lonnie, who had joined the others at the sec door. The crop-haired man seemed relieved to have left the med lab.

“Well?” Correll asked simply.

“He’s getting something called plasma, and the doctor did something to his shoulder, gave him some of the drugs. Travis is with him now, but he’s asleep and seems to be out of pain. Travis could learn a lot from her.”

“Good.” Correll nodded.

Then, turning to Ryan and his companions as they approached, he continued, “Your friend Mildred seems to be extremely knowledgeable. Cy sounds like he’s in good hands.”

“It is only fair, as we were responsible,” Doc murmured. The silence that greeted his remark made him feel uncomfortable.

“Really don’t think you should have pointed that out,” Krysty muttered, looking at their erstwhile opponents.

“No, the old man is right,” Correll interjected. “But that was appropriate for all, then. Perhaps it gave us a chance to learn something about the other. The past is another land.”

“Let’s hope we’ve sailed away from it, then,” J.B. whispered to Ryan as Correll led them all back down the corridor.

“Yeah, and the tide doesn’t wash us back,” the one-eyed man replied thoughtfully.

They were led into the section of the redoubt that was now used as living quarters by Correll’s people. Because of the problems caused by the giant worms and the manner in which they caused damage and possible death on the lower levels of the redoubt, it had been necessary for the community to base all their living operations around the upper two levels, rather than spread themselves across the whole base. Therefore, although they used the shower room with caution, they had taken most of the bedding from the dorms and used what had been offices and sec command posts and surveillance rooms to make new sleeping areas. They seemed to have either paired off, or slept and lived in small groups in what had once been military offices. The kitchens, which were also on one of the lower levels, had also been plundered, and the ovens and microwaves that had been previously installed in those areas had been taken out and reinstalled in an upper level area that had once, in the days before skydark, been used as an area for briefing the redoubt personnel. Thus, it was a long room that had plenty of space in which to deploy the ovens and also store much of the supplies from the kitchen areas.

J.B. and Ryan both observed this with interest, but kept their peace. Dean, however, wasn’t so silent, and as they passed this area he noted to Krysty, “If they’ve got those working, then they must have a pretty good idea of how a lot of this works.”

Correll stopped and turned to the younger Cawdor. “Son, I wish I could say you were right, but I don’t think any of us can claim that great a knowledge. Thing is, we’ve lived down here a while, and when the muties got too keen on using this place as a shortcut to wherever the hell they’re headed, then we all kinda figured that we needed to use that as little as possible. Which meant taking all the ovens out and getting them here, where it was safe. Only thing we had to leave was the really cold place—couldn’t figure a way of getting the food from that room and keeping it cold, so we had to leave that there and kinda take our chances like with the showers. But the other stuff…See, we took them apart kinda slow, so we could make out where everything went. Then we pulled them up here and figured out which bits of cable looked the same. But as to how it all actually works?”

“Have you tried anything else?” Dean persisted.

Correll allowed himself a ghostly smile that seemed unnatural on his grim visage. “Son, we live among this stuff, now. Where we eat and sleep, there’s flickering lights and old tech all around. Sometimes some of it gives out, sometimes we try to fix it. I don’t know if we do any good. I don’t even know if we really learn anything from it, but sometimes the lights start again, and sometimes you can still see the outside and some parts of in here on the screens.”

Doc looked around him. “I think you do yourself a disservice, my dear sir. The air-conditioning is still working, there is still water filtered through the plant, you have nearly all the facilities up and running. You should be congratulated.”

“I thank you kindly,” Correll replied graciously, “but the truth of the matter is that fate has been kind to us since our arrival here. We know how to keep things running, but if we had a real problem, then our feeble knowledge would be sorely stretched. Which is why, my friend, we wish to discover some more secrets of the old tech, and so unlock the way this place runs.”

Ryan interrupted. “Which is exactly what we’d like to do.”

Correll nodded. “Yes, we will talk more of this, but first we should eat. Your friend Mildred will be joining us. She has done a very fine job.”

Turning on his heel in a manner that suggested conversation was now over, Correll moved off, trailing his party and the companions in his wake.

As they walked on, J.B. turned it over in his mind. Correll and his people had the knowledge to keep some of the plant working, and working well. They would also, presumably, be able to maintain the wags that were stored on the second level. J.B. hadn’t noticed any on their way up, but then the wag bays were always kept apart from the rest of the redoubt because of the hazards of fuel storage. If the wags had been in as good a condition as the rest of the redoubt seemed to be, then they would have good transport, and plenty of fuel. From the way in which the party initially opposing them had been armed, it was an obvious conclusion that the armory had been well-equipped, and—taking a surreptitious glance at the party around him—they knew well enough how to look after their blasters. He had no doubt that the med lab was well equipped, as Millie would have made her feelings known on the matter to the man Lonnie, and Correll would have felt the rough edge of Millie’s tongue secondhand.

All in all, they had a good base from which to wage a war, and the equipment with which to win it. Redoubts this well equipped and maintained were rare, and anyone who stumbled across them had just gotten lucky.

Thing was, what did Correll and his people want to do with it? J.B. had a creeping feeling, tingling at the back of his neck, that Correll was spoiling for a fight with someone, and the companions had just stumbled into the beginnings of a private war, with the search for old tech and the arrival of an outside interest just the excuse and impetus he needed.

Coincidentally, much the same set of thoughts were running through Ryan’s head as they walked on.

Mebbe, the one-eyed man mused, they would learn something later that night.

THE COMPANIONS WERE given their own sleeping and living space, with bedding and a change of clothes taken from the supplies that still existed. The space was an old office that had just had the office furniture removed, and was noticeably free from much in the way of old tech.

“You can shower if you’re willing to take a chance,” Correll said as his parting shot. “Ain’t usually a problem, just be ready to move fast if you feel those tremors.”

When he and the accompanying party had left them alone, Krysty said, “I don’t know about you, lover, but it doesn’t all add up yet.”

Ryan shook his head. “Mebbe we’ll discover more when we eat—mebbe get to meet the rest properly.”

“Yeah, I don’t think this is that big a community,” added Mildred, who had joined them when Correll had shown them their quarters. “Should be fairly easy to keep tabs on them all, get the feel of what’s going on.”

“Should be…” J.B. said quietly. “Reckon they’ve got enough here to start a small war, and that’s what they’re after.”

Ryan agreed. “But why?”

“Dunno yet, but I guess we can’t hurry it up—so if it’s okay with everyone, I’ll take my chances with the showers,” Dean interjected. “May as well face it clean and fresh.” He grinned.

“Sound good,” Jak added, running a hand through his stringy white hair. “Good cold water make sharper.”

“Yeah, I could go for that,” Ryan agreed. “We’ll take it in shifts, stand lookout for any mutie trouble.”

They started to go, but Ryan noticed that Doc was still standing against the wall, looking pensive. As the others left, Ryan broke away and went over to Doc.

“What is it?”

Doc, lost in reverie, grunted and looked up at Ryan. For a moment, it seemed as though the old man’s eyes were a million miles and thousand of years from that room. The distance and desolation in them was enough to make Ryan—for all that he had seen—start back. Then the mists cleared for Doc, and he was once again back with the one-eyed warrior.

“I’m sorry, my dear boy, but for a moment I felt as though I was standing outside of myself, outside of everything.”

“You okay, Doc?”

“By the Three Kennedys, what a ridiculous question.” Doc laughed bitterly. “You of all people should know that the last thing I really am is okay. But for a second, I was reminded of something that I seem to remember from what seems many years ago. I suppose it is many years,” he added, surprise entering his tone, “but that is by the by. It is our host. There is something about the gentleman that haunts me. I feel he is a lost soul.”

“I think it’s me you’ve lost there, Doc,” Ryan said softly. He felt Doc was trying to tell him something important, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.

“He is driven by an inner demon that has taken over everything that he is or was. It is a demon that is part of him, and yet is apart. It has control of him to such an extent that it will care not for anyone or anything around. We should be wary of him, my dear Ryan, very wary. He means us no harm, I am sure, but we are the catalyst for him to put his own plans for vengeance into operation. And he will be merciless.”

Ryan chewed his lip, trying to unravel Doc’s language, the likes of which was no longer heard in the Deathlands. Finally, he nodded. “I understand. I figured along the same lines, I guess. But it’s a matter of playing the odds, Doc, and I figure that we should go with it. If we pay heed, and keep our backs covered—”

“Then that is all we can do,” Doc finished.

WITHIN A FEW HOURS, the companions, refreshed by their showers, were visited by Lonnie and Travis, who informed them that they would be eating shortly in the large room where the ovens were now installed. Travis also informed Mildred that Cy was sleeping, and that his condition was stable.

“But I’d be grateful if you could take a look at him later,” he added.

Mildred agreed, and waited until Lonnie and Travis had left before murmuring, “Considering we injured him, they’re being too damn nice about it.”

J.B. shrugged. “That’s life—and chilling—Millie. Most places they’d have chilled us straight away, but…”

“But we’ll find out soon enough,” Ryan finished.

The companions made their way to the eating room. The rest of the redoubt was empty except for one man, who sat alone in one of the living quarters. Doc looked in, and observed that it was a room that housed the monitors for all the sec cameras in the redoubt. To his surprise, none of the monitors were dark.

“Good heavens, that is most unusual!” he exclaimed.

The man on duty turned to him and shrugged. “Hell, if any of these go down, we probably couldn’t fix ’em. Have to start posting guards. Still, our luck’s holding so far. Guess Papa Joe’s right—mebbe it is our fate to be here and get even.”

Doc nodded and smiled. “Guess so, friend,” he said cheerily before slipping out of the room, adding to himself, “Now, that really is interesting.”

As they reached the eating room, they could see that the whole community was gathered together. There were about thirty in all, with only one-third of those being female. They were eating in relative silence, with only a very low hum of conversation taking place. Looking around, Dean could see that there were no children—no one, in fact, who seemed to be under the age of sixteen. The youngest-looking man in the room was a whip-thin boy who had the beginning of a beard, and was hunched over his food, as though wanting to appear invisible. Yet this had the opposite effect, as his intensity was such that he appeared to radiate a nervous energy that drew your eyes to him. Bizarrely, it was almost as though he could feel Dean looking at him. He turned to face the younger Cawdor, his eyes burning bright through his spectacles, a keen intelligence showing through. His eyes locked on Dean’s, as though he were assessing him. Then he gave the faintest of grins, and the briefest of nods, before turning back to his food.

Unusual for a community setup, there seemed to be no table and privileges reserved for the baron—although it had been noticeable that Correll hadn’t referred to himself as such—and the man who was leader was seated to one side of the room, with a group of people among whom were Travis and the Native American woman who had been in the defense party they had faced earlier. Correll stood when he noticed the companions enter, and beckoned them to him. They seated themselves at his table, some of the redoubt community moving to make room, and were served food by those who acted as cooks. Even these seemed to be on a par with everyone else, as there was no sign of a pecking order, and the cooks were as lean and fit as the people they had faced earlier.

In fact, this was one thing that all seemed to share. They seemed trained and fit, ready for combat at any time. This was a community that was carrying no passengers.

While they ate, they made small talk, and it wasn’t until the meal was nearly over that Ryan judged it time to broach the subject that had, sooner or later, to be talked about.

The one-eyed man downed some of the brew that had been supplied with the meal, then took a breath. “I guess it’s about time we all leveled. You know we came here using old tech. It was something we stumbled on, and we can’t control it although we know how to trigger it. It’s some kind of system for transporting people and objects across vast distances by breaking it all up into atoms and shooting it across from one comp to another.”

Correll nodded slowly, sucking in his breath. “That’d be crazy talk if I hadn’t known there was no other way to get into this place. So you can work it, but not control it?”

Ryan shook his head. “Guess it’s like you in that sense. You know something about the old tech, enough to use some and keep some going, but not enough to really make it work for you.”

Correll nodded. “That’s what we can find out. It’ll be sweet, and we can settle a few old scores. But to get at that knowledge, I need to know you’ll join us in a firefight.”

“Never shirked one yet,” Ryan said levelly. “Just tell us what it’s about.”

Correll sat back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling. “We’ve been here for about ten years now, just getting ourselves ready for when fate decrees we can rise again. See, I used to be sec chief for Charity—” he spit the name of the ville with an undisguised venom “—which is just about the stupidest name you can think of for a ville run by such a coldheart son of a gaudy like Baron Al ‘Red’ Jourgensen. Got run out of town because I was heading sec on a convoy headed for a trade rendezvous. We got raided by a party from Summerfield—they’re the ones who know something about the old ways, ’cause they had blasters and shit like you ain’t seen before. We didn’t stand a chance. All the things we were trading, all the jack we carried, it all went. Red wanted to chill me and the rest of the party who survived, so we had to run. Dammit, there was shit all we could do….

“Anyway, we found this place, and over the years there were others who Red was a shit to…. See, we lost the trade and jack ’cause Red didn’t let me take enough blasters or men. Always frightened he was gonna be overthrown if he let that happen. Stupe bastard deserves what he’ll get. We all come from Charity, but we won’t show none to old Red.”

“So why is it right now?” Krysty asked.

Correll raised an eyebrow. “Fate works in strange ways. It’s hard desert land out there, and that rad-blasting sun means jackshit grows that well. Summerfield may have old tech, but they ain’t got shit to protect their water, and they lost a whole heap of women ’cause of rad sickness. While Red—Well, that stupe fucker has screwed up his whole farming scheme, and there ain’t jackshit to eat. He needs jack for food and seed crop to start over.”

J.B. nodded to himself. From the description of the land, and what he’d seen earlier on the outside, he was now sure that he had been correct in his guess that they had landed somewhere in New Mex. That knowledge may be useful.

Correll was in full flow. “So Charity and Summerfield have a little deal going down. Red is selling them some women for breeding stock, and in return he gets jack to buy food and seed crop to start over. Thing is, we know the route they gonna have to take, and we’re gonna take them out. Get the jack and the women, then in the confusion when they think they’re double-crossing each other, we take out Summerfield, get their secrets, then wipe that bastard Red off the face of the earth.”

Correll’s speech had been listened to by all in silence, the hush spreading as he talked longer. Now he was cheered by the assembled throng.

“We’ve trained hard, denied ourselves families, denied ourselves rest, and now fate has delivered vengeance to us,” he yelled, to be greeted by whoops and hollers.

“They call us the Hellbenders out there,” one of the group screamed. “I know, I ain’t been here long. But they’re right—we’re sure as hell bent on vengeance.”

Ryan touched Correll on the arm, and the leader looked down at him, his eyes wild and gleaming, for a moment not seeing the one-eyed man.

“So when the hell does this begin?” Ryan queried.

“Seven days, friend, as long as it took to create this dust bowl before skydark. If that can happen, we can sure as hell get it together to whip some ass.”




Chapter Five


“It is not very long,” Doc mused. “Not very long at all.”

It was the morning after their first meal with the people they now knew were called the Hellbenders, and while Mildred went with Travis to check on Cy’s condition, the rest of the companions were taking a few moments to assess, through headaches caused by the previous night’s strong brew, what they had learned.

As the evening had worn on, and the redoubt dwellers had become intoxicated, so the rowdiness had increased. People were singing and shouting at one another, and Correll had tried to make himself heard to Ryan. But the volume from the assembled throng was too great, and the gaunt man’s voice strained to be heard.

It was then that he gave a demonstration of his authority that made the one-eyed man assess the power that he held, and conclude that it was very great. Frustrated at not being able to make himself heard, a cloud of fury crossing his brow, Correll rose to his feet and then climbed onto the table. This movement immediately caught the eye of J.B., who rose an eyebrow at Ryan, receiving a similar gesture from his friend. This would be a telling moment.

Correll drew a long knife from a scabbard attached to his thigh. It was similar to Ryan’s panga, but with a more curved blade that caught light from the candles that were augmenting the now dimmed fluorescent tubes, reflecting it in glittering patterns. Correll tossed the knife in the air so that it spun, and as it came back down he caught it by the point and, in one fluid motion, threw it so that it described a parabola around the circumference of the room. It skidded low across the tops of heads, its passing marked by a rush of air that breathed on the people, making them stop and turn. If someone had been standing higher than head height—on a chair, or on a table—then the knife would have sliced into them. As it was, Correll had judged the height to perfection, leaving nothing in the wake of the flight but a series of turned heads and a growing silence around the room.

The knife returned to him, its speed still strong. Correll leaned back without moving either of his feet and plucked the knife out of the air by its point as it passed him, killing the momentum dead with a downward flick of his wrist.

The room was now silent, all eyes on their leader.

“Good. I hate it when you all get too rowdy and I’m trying to talk. I was about to explain to our friends here that the mission on which they will join us is fast approaching. I have had intelligence reports that the trade-off is to be in seven days’ time. So we go on triple red and train hard. The countdown begins here. Enjoy tonight, but wake up tomorrow to work hard. Vengeance will soon be ours.”

With which he stood down from the table to a moment’s silence before the assembled throng, having been given the countdown to that which they desired, erupted into cheering and whooping before resuming their festivities—this time with a renewed sense of purpose.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Krysty remembered the conversation with an appalling clarity, just as she remembered the expression on Correll’s face as he spoke. His eyes glittered, his skin drew tight as the veins on his temples throbbed and the sinews stood out on his neck.

“It could never be too long, Doc,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever wait too long to go into a firefight with him.”

“Fight whether want or not,” Jak said with a shrug. “Fight him, fight Charity…fight someone.”

“Jak’s right,” Ryan agreed. “We’re caught between that rock and that hard place here. If we try to pull out on Correll, we’ll buy the farm right now. But—”

“But seeing the way he is, what kind of suicidal strategies does he have planned?” J.B. finished. Like Ryan, the Armorer had an uneasy feeling that Correll would stop at nothing to achieve his aim, not caring for the lives of his people—or, for that matter, his own.

“Right now we’ve got to go with it,” Ryan stated simply. “We’ve got no option here. But mebbe we can find a way to fill any holes in his plans and get nearer that old tech knowledge.”

“It sure would help,” Dean said, almost to himself. He had learned a few things at the Brody school, from the limited knowledge that was available. Like Mildred, he had an interest in the old comp tech that had led to them investigating the machines in redoubts whenever they had the chance, but those chances didn’t come too often.

Doc eyed Krysty shrewdly. “I fear you are not happy with such a plan,” he murmured to her. “In truth, neither am I. But Ryan is correct. In terms of options, we are severely limited.”

“I know it, Doc,” Krysty answered, “but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Mildred returned with Travis and entered on these words, the redoubt dweller behind her. She took in the situation at a glance, and immediately launched into a detailed report on her patient’s condition, along with praise for Travis’s skills, in order to deflect her companion from asking questions about, or dwelling on, anything he may have overheard as they entered.

Travis was unassuming about the praise he received. “I was only doing what you said,” he said to Mildred before, obviously uncomfortable at being lauded, changing the subject. “Look, we should be getting down to the meeting room. There’s a briefing, and I can’t believe Mr. C. doesn’t want you there. Not after last night.”

So saying, he led them from their room through the corridors to the room where they had eaten the previous evening.

“Nicely done, Millie,” J.B. whispered as they went.

“No more than you should expect, John,” she returned.

When they reached the meeting room, it was to find that the rest of the community was gathered, with Correll at the head, waiting for their arrival. After asking briefly how Cy was doing, Correll turned his attention to a crudely drawn map that was pinned to the wall.

“Now, most of the next six days we’re going to spend shaping up, sharpening those reflexes. There’ll be a training regime and combat tactics to learn. You’re good and sharp, but I want you sharper still. Ryan,” he said, turning to the one-eyed man, “I want you in on this with me. I figure an outside view from someone with your experience could be kinda interesting. And I want J.B. around, as well, ’cause we got to get that armory in the best shape it’s ever been, and you’re the man for that.”

The Armorer nodded, not letting his feelings show. It was in the companions’ best interests to have the armory in A1 condition, but it would also be good to know exactly what Correll had in his armory in case they had to stand against him.

Correll continued, pointing at the map. “I figure that the route will take both convoys around the really arid areas here—” he pointed at a spot toward the center of the distance between the two villes “—but they’ll still want to meet as near to the center as possible. I know Jourgensen, and so does Hutter, the baron in Summerfield,” he added for the benefit of the companions. “Any kind of advantage Jourgensen could get, he’d take with both greedy hands, so Hutter’ll want to keep things as neutral as possible. And guess what, people? It just so happens that brings them nice and near to us.

“While most of us train, there’s going to have to be volunteers for a recce party to scout Charity. I managed to get word from our spy in Charity about the meet, but Jourgensen has got the shape and size of the party well and truly sewn up. We need to get someone close enough to the ville to see what’s going on.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Lonnie rose to his feet. “I’ll go,” he said simply. The Native American woman rose to her feet, casting a hostile and suspicious look at the companions as she did.

“Count me in,” she muttered.

Correll shook his head. “No way, Jenny. You’ve got to oversee the armory, and I’ll need you to work with J.B.”

“Shit, Joe, can’t someone else do that? I don’t want to work with them,” she added, spitting out the last word as she glared at the companions.

Correll’s face hardened—if that was possible in a visage that was so gaunt to begin with. “I know how you feel. Lance was a good man, and it was sad to see him pass. But that’s fate. These people were defending themselves as we were. There was no malice, and we hold none against them.”

Jenny turned and looked directly at Correll, her eyes meeting his with a blaze of defiance and anger. She matched him for a few moments, then looked down. “Okay,” she mumbled, “if that’s the way it’s got to be.”

“It is,” Correll said softly. “Sit down and let’s see someone else.”

She reluctantly sat, and others rose to take her place. The recce party would consist of the lean, crop-haired Lonnie; Mik, a small, lean-faced man with several piercings and sardonic gaze; Tilly, a woman with large brown eyes and mouth set in determination, and the whip-thin boy in spectacles who had caught Dean’s gaze the evening before. His name was Danny, and it seemed that he was the youngest member of the community.

“I think we shouldn’t forget our friends,” Correll said when he had approved the volunteers. “It would only be reasonable to send someone from your group on the recce,” he added directly to Ryan.

The one-eyed man wasn’t keen on the idea. He would have preferred to keep his people together at this time. He didn’t believe that Correll had any notions of chilling the group, but he figured that the man was unpredictable and possibly insane, driven beyond reason by his cause. But what could Ryan do? To dissent would be to cause a problem that was, at this stage, unnecessary and undesirable.

“Mebbe,” he said slowly. “You want me, J.B. and Mildred here, right?” Correll nodded. Ryan continued, “So you take your pick out of the rest.”

Correll eyed Ryan, the sunken orbs boring into the one-eyed man.

“Okay,” he said finally, “I’m reckoning that Jak is the best tracker and hunter you’ve got, and I’m also reckoning that your boy Dean—if he’s anything like you—will be good to have in a firefight. I’ll pick them.”

Ryan nodded agreement, looking to Dean and Jak. Both assented, and seemed happy enough.

“I’d like to go, as well,” Doc said suddenly.

“Why?” Correll asked. “No offence intended, but you don’t seem the most physically able to undertake such a mission.”

Doc gave a sly grin. “That’s precisely why. You see, my dear sir, I would consider that you are, quite reasonably, testing us in some manner. If that is so, then the onus is on me, as the most physically frail seeming of the group, to prove that we will—every last one of us—be able to pull our weight when the time comes for action. Therefore, what better way to do this than to take part in such a mission.”

Correll said nothing for a moment, instead levelly gazing at Doc. Finally, he spoke. “You use a lot of words to say something, but when you get there it makes sense. Okay, Dr. Tanner, you can join the recce party.”

It was a two-day trek from the redoubt to Charity, and as soon as the meeting was concluded, the party began to prepare. To get there, scout and return would take a total of five days, leaving them with only the sixth day to rest, recuperate and report before the attack.

It would take two days to make the trek as they would be going by foot to avoid detection by any sec patrols or passing wags on their way to either of the villes. Even in the wastelands they would traverse, it would be easier to hide on foot than if they were in a wag. The objective was to avoid attracting attention, either by being noticed or by having to chill any passing wag, which may then be missed and spark an alarm.

So it was that the three companions who joined with the four Hellbenders found themselves being kitted out for desert survival by Jenny, the Native American who was in charge of both the armory and stores. She gave them self-heats and water canteens, and each had an individual tent made of a lightweight material with a thin, tubular metal frame that folded up into a light backpack.

“This is a most splendid thing,” Doc commented as he unraveled and examined the tent, pointedly ignoring the hostile stare he received from the Native American woman. “I must admit, I’ve never come across anything like this in any of the other stores.”

Jenny gave him a quizzical look, the hostility momentarily dissipating. “You’ve seen other places like this?” she asked.

Remembering that Ryan had said nothing of the other bases, allowing Correll to draw his own conclusions about where they came from, Doc refused to be drawn. “We’ve seen many places,” he commented elliptically, “and perhaps if you had seen what we have, then you may have a more tolerant attitude to what happens,” he chided.

The Native American stopped for a moment, considering what Doc had said, before nodding to herself. “Okay,” she murmured to the older man, “you and me can talk more about this when you get back. Mebbe you can make me see your point of view.”

Doc joined the others in the party, who had already been kitted out by the redoubt’s quartermaster. Jak and Dean weren’t surprised by what Doc had achieved, but the four Hellbenders were amazed.

“Tell you something,” commented the wiry and small Mik, sniffing as he spoke, “that’s a rarity, that is, getting her to crack her face and stop being so sour.”

Lonnie pulled an amused face. “Yeah, but you only say that ’cause she won’t let you fuck her.”





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