“Get along, Moses,” the old man said, leaning forward in the wag to shake the reins. “Come on now, boy, you can do it.”
Obediently, the lead mule threw itself forward against the harness, and the others followed suit. With loud creaks, the rear tire was triumphantly pulled out of the rut it had been trapped in, and once more the rickety cart started rolling along the dried riverbed.
Setting his battered hat to a better angle against the sun, the ancient driver settled onto the splintery plank that served as a seat, and tried to get comfortable.
Forming a ragged line, there were five other carts similar to the wrinklie’s. Loose sheets of canvas were draped over the cargo in the back of each of the flatbeds, the contents rattling and clanking at every pothole and gully. Turning was a difficult job, but the driver really didn’t care. This was a one-way trip. Once they reached Indera ville, their troubles would be over. Baron Jeffers was a good man and never went back on his word.
“Unlike so many other barons,” the wrinklie muttered to himself, shaking the reins again. “Steady there, Moses! Good boy, that’s it.”
Loudly braying in reply, the mule twitched a shoulder to dislodge a buzzing fly and kept going. The five other beasts dumbly followed his lead.
In the second cart, a young man controlled the reins and a middle-aged woman sat alongside with a loaded crossbow in her lap. In the third, that mix was reversed, and in the last cart two burly women sat side by side. Their faces were grim and hard, their expressions only softening when they glanced at each other.
The riverbed was relatively flat, but studded gullies from the hard summer rains. Bare rocky hills rose sharply on either side of the passage, casting whole sections of the riverbed into shadow. But the old caravan leader had been ready for that. Each wag in the caravan had a pair of torches set alongside the driver, the wads of cloth and rope soaked in sticky tar that had been cooked out of chunks of predark asphalt. The torches would reek like a burning outhouse, but the flames would be bright as a lantern and no amount of rain or wind could put them out.
Barking dogs raced freely on the riverbed, darting under the carts and dodging the slowly rolling tires. The fur of the muscular animals was patchy with scars, their ears chewed and tails broken. Each had been given a name, but they all responded to the universal call “dog.”
Playfully nipping and chasing each other as they escorted the lumbering caravan, the dogs stayed well clear of the harnessed mules. When first introduced back at the old ville, the leader of the pack had bitten the hind leg of a complacent old mule to establish authority. The ancient pack animal didn’t change its dull expression as it violently kicked backward and drove a sharp hoof into the dog, shattering its rib cage and crushing its heart. The dog went tumbling from the deadly blow to lie on the dusty ground heaving for air while the other dogs circled it, yipping in confusion until it expired. Since that, no dog in the pack had been stupid enough to ever bother the mules again.
The old driver jerked up his head at the sound of a distant mountain cat snarling over a fresh chill, and he laid a gnarled hand on the crossbow on the seat next to him.
Some of the people in the caravan had blasters, but they were crude weapons, iron pipes reinforced with hot steel wire bound tight around the length until it cooled and contracted, tightening and strengthening the barrel. Nothing fancy like some big ville sec man’s pride, these were heavy longblasters that could also serve as a club. The black powder weapons were muzzle-loaders, and packed with anything that would fit, sharp, rocks, bent nails, broken glass. There were small holes on top with bits of fuse sticking out, pieces of string rolled in black powder, but they worked most of the time.
At short range, the crude weapons laid down a hellstorm of debris and could blow a man out of his saddle. They were even more effective against the vultures and stingwings that sailed the desert sky. But against stickies and howlers they were useless. The muties took little damage from the garbage scatterguns, and the thundering booms only attracted more of the nuke-blasted monsters. The caravan drivers had learned fast to save the blasters for people, and to only use crossbows on the muties.
Under the canvas sheets covering the carts were wooden barrels, steel drums, copper tubing and other assorted paraphernalia of their craft.
Shine. Although, one crazy old wrinklie used to call it moonshine. The members of the caravan weren’t blood-kin, but close enough. They were brewmasters, and made the cleanest, tastiest shine in the territory. Nobody went blind drinking their brew, and it burned just as smooth in a lantern as it did fueling an engine. Made nuking good Molotovs, too.
Couple of seasons ago, word had reached the mountaineers that Baron Jeffers wanted brewmasters in his ville on the Ohi. Having lost a host of friends and kin to the wolves that winterfall, the mountaineers thought walls and sec men sounded mighty fine. So they built some carts, gathered tools and started the long journey from their craggy peaks down into the burning desert.
Discovering a small green lizard on the ground, one of the dogs started circling the reptile, snarling. The lead mule shied away from the commotion, taking the rest along with him, and the elderly driver nearly lost control of the cart.
“Whoa, Moses!” he said in a soothing tone, tightening the rein. “Easy, big fella. Easy there.”
Slowly remembering that the man fed and whipped them, the harnessed mules grudgingly obeyed, and settled back into their endless drudgery of hauling the heavy carts.
Hissing defiantly, the lizard scuttled forward to attack the barking dog, and another hound leaped upon its back to sink sharp teeth into the mottled green hide. Trying to escape, the lizard thrashed around, squealing, a pair of iridescent wings unfolding from its ridged back. Shaking its head, the dog snapped the spine of the little mutie, and the lizard shuddered before going still. Gleefully, the dog ripped off a mouthful of flesh and ran away, allowing the others to converge and finish the meal. The tiny reptile didn’t go very far among the large dogs, and the famished animals began to race around again, forever on the prowl for anything else to fill the yawning pit of their taut bellies.
Chuckling in amusement at the show, the old driver reached into his tattered vest and pulled out a silver flask. Thumbing off the cap, he took a short swig of the tepid water. Shine had a lot of uses, but curing your thirst wasn’t one of them.
Snapping the plastic cap back on, the wrinklie tucked the flask away, then paused to look around. Eh? Now what in world was that odd buzzing sound? Looking upward, the man frowned at the sight of something moving in the sky.
Was…was that a stingwing?
WITH THE WIND BLOWING in her face, Sandra Tregart was soaring through the sky with an electric tingle in her belly. Black dust, flying was better than anything! She would never come down if that were possible.
High above her biplane, thunder peeled in the fiery orange clouds and a downdraft hit her plane, carrying the reek of ozone and chems. Pulling the scarf tighter across her mouth and nose for protection, Sandra leveled out the Angel and fed more fuel to the hungry engine. She was about halfway back to Thunder ville by now. All she had to do was to follow the dry river to the mesa, then head for the Ohi and she was home.
Cutting through the excitement of flying was a stab of remorse over leaving her eunuchs in the clutches of those savages in the desert. She had wasted time destroying the Demon first, and then when she circled back to chill the cannies, everybody was gone. Sandra had randomly dropped two of her dynamite bombs on the dunes, but aside from creating spectacular geysers of sand there had been no noticeable results. Her men were gone, and there was nothing she could do about that. Not even get the satisfaction of revenge. Wild anger boiled up inside the woman, and she suddenly screamed curses at the world until her throat became sore.
Finally running out of breath, Sandra tried to push the matter from her mind, when she noticed something moving along the riverbed below. Dipping a wing, she swooped lower for a better view.
Ah! It was a convoy of some kind, four large carts being pulled by teams of mules. Leveling the biplane, Sandra scowled at the idea of more outlanders invading her valley. Or worse! They could be mercies hired by another baron to attack her ville. Baron Marengold, or perhaps even the fat fool of a woman Baron d’Vulea. Clutching the joystick with both hands, Sandra gave a throaty chuckle. Well, she could easily handle the two of them at the same time once she refueled. That was always the limiting factor. There was just not enough shine to fuel all of the missions she wanted to fly.
Fingering the trigger on the joystick, Sandra debated easing some tension by strafing the little carts with blasterfire and chilling the mules. That would leave the people in the middle of mutie country with no way out but walking, which was the equivalent of a death sentence. It would be kinder to let them buy the farm here and now. Slowly, the woman began to ferociously grin. Unfortunately for them, she wasn’t feeling very generous that afternoon.
Lowering the wing flaps, Sandra dropped her speed and began to swing around for a second pass when she caught a glimpse of something under the canvas of the second wagon the looked like red metal snakes. The woman gasped as she realized the truth, and then narrowed her eyes in raw greed. Copper tubing. There was copper tubing in that cart! That was the one item she needed to be able to make a second still. That would mean twice as much flying time! The very thought filled her with a wild giddiness, but that was swiftly replaced by a cold resolution. She had to have that tubing!
However, a glance at her fuel gauge told the brutal truth that Sandra was already at the point of no return. If she turned back right now, Sandra could get very close to the crater, and her sec men would be able to escort her and the biplane safely inside. But only if she didn’t tarry, or delay.
Impulsively, she looked again. Black dust, they had so much tubing! Maybe enough for a third still, possibly even four! That would mean unlimited fuel, and all the flying she could ever want. Unlimited air time for the Angle and all its sister Demons.
Shoving the joystick all the way forward, Sandra almost flooded the engine as she angled into a steep dive, building speed until the guylines supporting her wings began to hum from the wind pressure. All. She wanted it all!
As the Angel dropped screaming from the sky, most of the people in the carts shrieked in terror and covered their faces. Only a couple of the drivers raised crossbows and started launching arrows her way. The feathered darts arched into the sky, most falling behind to miss her completely. The Angel was too fast! But then one accidentally went through a wing, leaving a ragged hole in the silky cloth. Recoiling from the sight, Sandra held her breath, wondering if the puncture would rip open wide, tearing off the wing and sending her tumbling down to a fiery death. But the predark material held. The Angel was okay. It was just a flesh wound, nothing mortal. Both she and the biplane would live.
Lining up the spinning blur of the propeller, Sandra reached out to flip the safety on the big machine gun. She only had a hundred rounds of ammo in the belt in an effort to save weight and fly longer. Now Sandra regretted that economy, and cursed the fact she didn’t have a full nine yards of lead in the big predark blaster. There had been thousands of rounds in the junkyard where she found the biplane, but time had weakened the powder in the brass cartridges to the point where only a handful would work, and none of them had enough force to operate the feeder mechanism of the rapid-fire. Her eunuchs had painstakingly reloaded each cartridge by hand with the finest black powder until she fully armed. However, this measly hundred was all Sandra had with her this day. It would have to be enough.
Sweeping across the caravan, Sandra stroked the trigger and the entire plane recoiled as the .50-caliber machine gun spit out gouts of flame between the spinning propellers. She had seen it before on the ground, but while in flight the sight was incredible. A complex mechanism under the cowl allowed the hot lead to pass between the spinning wooden blades without touching them. It was unbelievable, and as far as Sandra was concerned, the tech bordered on magic.
The heavy-duty combat rounds slammed along the caravan, ripping the canvas and punching through the contents to hit the ground below. Men and women screamed, mules reared in blind panic, and the last wag exploded into flames. Yes!
Now blasters sounded from the people, and Sandra slipped sideways along an airstream to slide out of range and let them waste precious ammo. After a few moments, the booming stopped and she circled back to speed past the carts once more, now concentrating on the harnessed mules standing in neatly arranged double lines. The animals simply collapsed as the hot lead from the Angel stitched across them in crimson fury. Then a second cart exploded into flames, and Sandra pulled back on the joystick to climb high once more before the people below could get off a single shot in reply.
By now, chaos filled the riverbed. A couple of men were on fire, and ran around flapping their arms like headless chickens. A few of the others were trying to throw sand on the two burning carts, having no effect whatsoever on the blaze. Even as Sandra watched, the second wag erupted, sending out a fiery rain. Soon the entire caravan was ablaze, people, carts, mules and dogs. Thrilled, Sandra laughed insanely over the throbbing engine. So it was a shine convoy, eh? Even better! Normally nobody sane would dare to attack a shine wag. One wrong shot and all of the precious cargo would be destroyed. At the very worst, the drivers could hold their own shine hostage with a torch. But the Outlanders had simply not considered that somebody would only want the copper tubing, and what better way to get it than to remove the owners by detonating the shine. Blind norad, it was all so easy from up here. So childishly simple!
“I am a god!” Sandra Tregart screamed over the rumbling thunder, as the people below burned and screamed and died. DODGING THE INCOMING arrows, Ryan fired the Steyr from the hip. The soft-nose 7.62 mm round smacked a cannie in the chest, spinning him, blood going everywhere.
As an arrow slammed into the ground between his legs, J.B. cut loose with the Uzi sending out a hellstorm of hot lead. Then thunder boomed as Doc unleashed the LeMat. The .445 miniball slammed into another cannie, lifting the skinny man off his feet and sending him flying backward over the dune and out of sight.
Triggering his Colt Python, Jak jerked as an arrow hit the collar of his leather jacket. But the slim wooden shaft shattered as it ripped open the leather, exposing the hidden steel blades sewn into the lining. Shifting his aim, Jak returned fire, and a cannie fell minus most of his throat.
Then Krysty screamed in mortal agony as an arrow passed dangerously close to her face and went through her flexing red hair. As several of the animated tendrils fell away, the woman dropped her revolver and collapsed to the ground violently shaking from the waves of unimaginable pain coursing through her entire body.
Drawing the SiG-Sauer, Ryan kept shooting and stepped protectively in front of the shaking woman. The Uzi raking the top of the sand dune, J.B. moved to cover her back, and Doc filled the protective triangle, his LeMat blowing flame and thunder with devastating results.
Acing a cannie notching a fresh arrow into his crossbow, Jak holstered his Colt and pulled out a gren. Arming the charge, the albino teen lobbed it high and it landed right on target just as two more cannies came into view. The newcomers barely had a chance to react when the gren detonated and crest of the dune vanished in deafening report of chemical flame.
As a gritty cloud of sand began to drift to the ground, the companions quickly reloaded and looked around for any more trouble coming their way. But the area seemed to be clear. The tattoo-covered bodies of the fallen cannies lay scattered in various stages of dismemberment. The wags were undamaged, and Ryan was relieved to see that nobody was bleeding badly, but…
“Where the hell is Mildred?” he demanded, feeling his stomach muscles tighten in apprehension.
Caught in the act of slapping a fresh clip into the Uzi, J.B. paused and jerked his head around, then turned, quickly looking for the woman. She was nowhere in sight.
“Millie!” J.B. bellowed at the top of his lungs as the wind blew off his hat. He paid no attention. “Millie!”
But there was no answer, the only sounds were the whispering rustle of the shifting sands and the dying crackling of the burning plane.
“Shitfire, this was a suck play!” Ryan realized, feeling rage boil up inside. “Just a fucking diversion to keep us busy!”
“While they grabbed her,” J.B. whispered in shock. The man went pale at the knowledge that the cannies had taken the woman alive. Again. Memories of their last encounter with cannies were so fresh in their minds.
Just then, a sharp whistle cut the air and the companions spun, their weapons at the ready.
“This way!” Jak stated. “They got, but she fighting.”
“By the Three Kennedys, if these hellish visigoths dare to harm that sweet lady again—” Doc began.
“Can that crap,” Ryan barked, cutting him off. There were enough raw emotions running wild at this point. They had to stay sharp if they wanted to ever see Mildred again.
A startled Doc gave the man a stern look, then nodded in comprehension. Yes, of course. This was a time for the head, not the heart.
“J.B. and Doc, take the Hummers!” Ryan ordered, removing the spent clip from inside the Steyr and ramming home a full one. He worked the bolt to break the seal and chamber a round. “I’ll go with Jak. Krysty can…Krysty!”
Wiping her blaster clean, the woman waved that she was okay. Ryan didn’t believe that for a moment, but knew she could handle the pain. Having her hair cut was like a person losing a finger. His hand went impulsively to the patch on his face. Almost as bad as losing an eye.
“Krysty, take the bike and cover our six,” Ryan urged in a gentler tone. “Can you do that?”
“No prob, l-lover,” Krysty said, forcing herself to stand straight. “Let’s go get her.”
“Enough talk, let’s move, people!” J.B. shouted, a touch of panic marring his voice. Scrambling for the black Hummer, the man jumped inside, slammed the door shut and cracked the engine hard until it roared to life, thick smoke pulsing from the exhaust stack on top of the hood.
Still feeling nauseous from the aftereffects of the mutilation, Krysty ignored her pounding temples and clumsily climbed onto the Beamer. She needed two tries to finally get the big engine purring.
Seeing her rattled condition, Doc wanted to offer assistance, but knew better and got into the camou-colored Hummer. The woman had been through a lot worse and survived. Krysty would be fine. He started the engine. And God help the first cannie she ever got her hands on.
“Hey, J.B.!” Ryan called.
Hunched over the steering wheel, the man looked out the open window of the Hummer. “Yeah?”
“Stay sharp, and we’ll find her,” Ryan said solemnly.
“Bet your ass we will,” J.B. snapped, slamming the Hummer into gear and starting to roll forward.
Walking around the dune, Ryan found Jak yards away, moving fast as if trying to keep ahead of the windblown dust filling in the tracks. Wisely, Ryan kept clear of the albino teen and let the hunter do his work. Jak watched the ground, and Ryan watched Jak. Overlapping fields of operation, was what the Trader used to call the tactic. When everybody had somebody’s back, then nobody died but the enemy. Stupe coldhearts would just rush into a fight, but trained sec men would move in groups. Five trained people could slaughter thirty disorganized individuals every nuking time.
Slowly and steadily, Jak moved across the shifting sands, his face tight as he tried to follow the confusing trail. Going around a large boulder, the teen reappeared from the other side, frowned and went back to try another path. He started along a different trail, then stopped and picked up some more beads. Mildred had to be pulling them to drop along the way. That was triple-smart, and it helped a lot. But Jak would still have to be careful that the cannies didn’t discover what she was doing and have somebody rip out a handful to take off and lay a false trail to nowhere. A storm was coming and the wind was increasing. If he lost the woman now, she was gone forever.
“Sons of bitches mixed up their trail pretty good,” J.B. cursed impatiently.
“These bastards hunt norms,” Krysty said, riding alongside the Hummer. “They’re not stupe.”
“They were today,” J.B. retorted, tightening his hand on the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Just like they were the last time they took Millie.”
Flinching slightly as the desert breeze riffled her hair, Krysty started to reply when she saw something move near the top of a nearby sand dune. In a rush of adrenaline, she clawed for her blaster, but then realized it was some sort of plant up there. No, those were fronds, the feathery top of bamboo!
Jak was nowhere in sight, but she could see Ryan running in the direction of the bamboo. Revving the Beamer, Krysty raced ahead to join them. Nearing the dune, the loose sand suddenly became much firmer, and the woman spotted dead grass mixed here and there in a patchy carpeting. Soon green grass was pushing through the sand and flowering bushes dotted the land as small grooves of bamboo trees thrust upward to form a natural windbreak.
Slowing the purring bike, Krysty maneuvered through the burgeoning plants, trying to keep a watch on Ryan. She lost him for a second, then Ryan reappeared from break in the swaying bamboo and waved her onward. Easing the motorcycle through the gap in the clacking wall of bamboo, Krysty wasn’t surprised to discover a small oasis.
Safe from the ravages of the desert sand, green grass and flowering bushes spread across the hidden patch of land surrounded by the thick bamboo grove. A large pool of clear water filled the center of the oasis, buzzing bees moving in a dark cloud around a large hive set among the rusted chassis of a predark van. Braking to a halt at the edge of the pool, Krysty could see fish swimming in the water below the lily pads. Gaia! It was as if a small part of the predark world had survived in the very heart of the Deathlands.
Staring intently at the greenery, Jak was moving through the weeds and rushes growing along a bubbling spring that fed the shimmering pool. With his longblaster and handblaster held at the ready, Ryan stayed behind the teen, clearly watching the bushes for any signs of suspicious movements.
From behind, Krysty heard the Hummers arrive and then cut their engines. A moment later J.B. and Doc walked through the small passage in the bamboo having wisely decided not to announce their arrival by nosily forcing the wags through the grove.
Then J.B. stopped dead and thrust a hand into a thorny bush to pull out Mildred’s med kit. Having trouble breathing, the man closed his eyes for a moment, then snapped them open and slid the strap of the canvas bag over a shoulder.
“She’s here,” he stated in a strained whisper, both hands clenching the plastic grip of the Uzi machine pistol.
“Here!” Jak called, touching a crimson stain on a flowering bush. “Fresh split.”
As the others started closer, Ryan noticed a ripple of motion in the pool and only caught a brief glimpse of an armed figure before he shot from the hip, the silenced SiG-Sauer coughing gently. Grunting from the impact of the 9 mm round, the naked man rising from the water fired his crossbow, the arrow flashing across the oasis past Doc to slam in the bamboo grove, causing a series of clatters and clacks.
Ruthlessly, Ryan fired again and the cannie dropped the crossbow to splash into the water. Groaning into a sigh, the man stumbled and fell over sideways into weeds along the shoreline. Slowly, a red stain began to spread across the clear water of the pool.
Alert for treachery, the companions gathered around the corpse. Lying sideways in the mud, the man’s slack mouth was hanging open, exposing the rows of teeth filed to sharp points. Leanly muscled, his entire body was heavily tattooed in wild designs of swirls, his only clothing a woven belt around his waist supporting a rubbery tube and a sheathed knife.
Spitting out his cigar stub, J.B. aimed his shotgun at the dead man, only to lower the barrel.
“An aquatic assassin,” Doc said with a frown. “Do you suppose he was left behind to try to ambush us?”
“Not likely,” Ryan replied, pulling the rubber tube from the dead man’s belt. There were teeth marks at one end, but not the other.
“This is for staying submerged,” Ryan said, scanning the pool.
Below the lily pads and darting fish there was a dark shape that could be an underwater cave. Instantly, Ryan understood the brilliance of the trap. Lots of predators waited for their prey at water-holes. The cannies had merely taken it one step further, and were hiding inside the damn water. When outlanders camped along the lake, the cannies could simply come out at night to gather the sleeping harvest of meat.
“We go swimming,” Jak said, sliding off his leather jacket. The garment hit the grass with a muffled clatter.
Dropping the med kit, J.B. slung the shotgun and checked the clip in the Uzi before tucking the rapid-fire into his belt to keep it from flailing around.
As Krysty waded into the shallows, Ryan started to shrug off his lined jacket, then paused to glance at Doc. The man was scowling at the lake, one fist clenched on the grip of his LeMat. Shitfire, he hadn’t thought about that. A black-powder wep, the LeMat didn’t use shells. Dip the blaster into water and the powder would flow out the sides of the cylinder like black pudding. There were other blasters in the Hummers, but the time traveler was attached to the Civil War handcannon as if it was blood kin.
“Doc, you stay here and guard the wags,” Ryan ordered, transferring a gren from his jacket to the pocket of his pants. “Stay sharp! We may come running.”
Slowly nodding, Doc pulled out the monstrous hogleg and clicked back the curved hammer. “None shall pass,” the man rumbled in his deep voice.
Taking a huge breath, Krysty submerged and started swimming for the bottom of the pool. The fish weren’t frightened by her intrusion, which seemed to imply this sort of thing happened often.
Tucking his glasses into a pocket, J.B. went next, with a knife in his teeth and hate in his eyes.
After tying off his mane of white hair, Jak dived in with hardly a splash, his powerful arms propelling him downward with amazing speed. Filling his lungs, Ryan followed with equal ease.
Standing alone on the shoreline, Doc pulled the long steel blade from inside his ebony cane and took a position where he could watch both the pool and the Hummers outside the bamboo.
The man had already decided to give them an hour, then he would go in after them anyway. There were other blasters in the wags; the M-16 used bullets that were totally water resistant. The LeMat was a precious link to his past, a physical reminder of a peaceful world that still existed, and a loving wife waiting for him somewhere in time. But his friends were equally important, and where they went, so would Theophilus Algernon Tanner.
But for the moment, Doc would wait, and watch, praying to God for their safe deliverance.