Deathlands - Zero City Part 19

"There's a library," Doc said, pointing, his other hand holding tightly on to the window frame. "Always a good repository of..." The oldster squinted hard. "I say, are those trucks in the parking lot?"

"Vehicles?" J.B. asked, coming over to extend his telescope. "I would have thought the sec men had gathered everything with wheels for that b.l.o.o.d.y huge wall. Hey, those are U.S. Army trucks, and they're filled with crates of military supplies. Hot d.a.m.n!"

"Hmm, I do recall Jak saying that the sec men retrieved bodies from an attack by the muties," Doc rumbled, his coat spreading out like wings from the stiff breeze. "That must be the location where they struck." "And the sec men took the bodies but left everything else?" J.B. admonished, lowering the telescope.

"But that doesn't make any sense... Oh, they took half of the supplies. A little something for the baron, a little for them."

"And more for us." Doc smiled, marking the location in his mind. "I wonder where they located the military supplies, still intact?"

"Can't be the redoubt. If they got in, they would never leave. So it must have been a bomb shelter," J.B.

said thoughtfully as he lowered the telescope. "Just look at all the government buildings this city has! It must have been the capital of...well, wherever the h.e.l.l we are. And the predark government always built plenty of bomb shelters to save the pencil pushers and a.s.s kissers."

Stepping away from the opening, Doc straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. "A most logical a.s.sumption, my good sir. What say we swing by there on our way back and see what the G.o.ds of chance have laid at our altar of need?"

"Sounds good," J.B. said, checking his compa.s.s. "North is that way. Let's see if we can spot the ville."

"Certainly."

As they walked around the burnished-metal rectangle of the elevator banks, neither man seemed to notice as the doors slid silently apart behind them, exposing the blackness within.

To the west was endless desert, only the hint of mountains lost in a purple haze of the horizon. But directly north of the skysc.r.a.per was the yellow river, and beyond that the nameless ville.

"By the Three Kennedys, look at those greenhouses," Doc said, shielding his vision from the weak daylight with a raised hand.

Tilting back his hat, J.B. whistled. "Must have a hundred of them. Where the h.e.l.l did they find any clean dirt? From under the ruins, mebbe?"

"Or they made it themselves," Doc said, rubbing his chin. "Simply mince and boil your own night soil until it was sterilized, then mix with sand."

"And that will grow crops?"

"Without question."

Whew, the things the old man knew. "Searchlights to attract people and protect the ville from the muties, trained wolves and now greenhouses," J.B. muttered, lifting the telescope for a view. "Their baron must be a genius!"

"Or a farmer."

"Farmer with an army," J.B. stated, spotting a commotion in the ringed compound. Adjusting the focus, he swept the milling crowd gathering before a raised platform. "Looks like they're having a meeting of some kind."

"Any sight of our comrades?" Doc asked worriedly, pressing his boot against the frame of the window.

The gusts of wind tugged at their clothes, whipping about the loose cloth and keeping them slightly offbalance. It was necessary to hold on to the window frame to keep from going over.

"Not yet," J.B. replied. "Here, take a gander." But turning to offer the telescope, he saw a furtive movement near the elevators. Then the man went cold as he spotted the tip of a gray wing sticking out from behind one of the support pillars.

"Ah, Doc," he whispered, pocketing the telescope.

"Mm-hmm?"

J.B. casually withdrew a grenade. "Muties."

Slowly, the oldster brushed back his billowing coat and drew the LeMat. "How many?"

Just then, they heard a skittering noise, like dozens of claws on a hard surface, followed by the faint crack of a piece of gla.s.s.

"Too many," J.B. answered, prepping a gren. The awesome power of the LAW slung across his back was useless for this kind of combat. The ant.i.tank weapon took thirty seconds to prep, even if the creatures should offer a nice grouped target. Hardly likely. "Hate to say this, but I think we found their b.a.s.t.a.r.d nest."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

Easing back the hammer on his blaster, Doc glanced over the side of the building, looking at the distant streets and the tiny Hummer, no more than a dark jot in the tan sand. There was no convenient fire escape or any other way down. Even if they were over water and jumped, a fall from that height would kill them.

"Could we reach the stairs?" the old man asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Not a chance. Ready?"

"So it would seem I must be. On your mark, my friend."

"Go." J.B. turned and threw the gren, while Doc spun and fired the LeMat in a single smooth motion.

The blast of the HE blocked their view of the floor and threatened to throw them off the building, but as the smoke cleared, both men started to fire at the crowd of muties crawling around the elevator bank and coming straight for them.

SWADDLED IN DIRTY CLOAKS, two people walked through the bustling market square of Alphaville. The tall one carried a rolled-up blanket on his back; the other was shorter and most definitely a woman despite attempts to hide the fact.

On this side of the river, the ruins of the predark city had been extensively rebuilt, and while the new mortar between the recovered bricks didn't precisely match the colored bands of the ancient concrete still supporting pieces of walls, the homemade concrete did seem to be holding the patchwork of bricks and cinder blocks together, which was all that really mattered. A former gas station was serving as a stable for a few skinny horses, and a tavern was open for business on the corner across from a pottery shop, a dozen people inside spinning clay by hand on rotating tables.

A tailor was cutting garments for an impatient child, while the mother was giving unneeded directions. A bookstore was a burned-out sh.e.l.l, with workmen digging through the wreckage to haul away the trash. A cooper was frowning in frustration, a water barrel before him leaking water from every seam. A cobbler, a baker, a barber, a school for small children, a gallows, a defense nest of sandbags and sec men. And everywhere were the greenhouses, the gla.s.s glistening clean, folks inside doing things with the rows upon rows of lush green plants while grim-faced sec men stood guard at the doors, muzzle-loading rifles at the ready.

Shuffling along, talking to n.o.body, the pair reached the main market square and stopped. Here hundreds of people were exchanging items, buying vegetables or haggling over the cost of rat poison. Set between a greenhouse and a barracks, across from a dentist, was a gaudy house. Topless women leaned out the second-floor balcony, dangling the goods for sale.

The ville was thriving with activity. Tables galore in the market square were piled with salvaged tools, sc.r.a.p wire, mismatched shoes and even a few books. A plump woman with a babe in tow haggled prices with a merchant and came away with a mason jar to be used for canning food. She paid for it with a small loaf of fresh bread from the basket on her arm.

"But no weapons," Ryan said, adjusting his scarf to hide his eye patch. "Not even knives." More than a few folks had similar wrappings, and once again Ryan wondered where they were.

"No butchers, either. Baron keeps a taut ship," Krysty said quietly. A hood covered her head to hide her unusual hair. There was a faint reddish streak across her cheek where the bullet had grazed her face the previous night, but it was already fading. She always healed fast.

The crowd surged from an influx of people coming out of a steaming laundry, and Ryan got b.u.mped hard from behind. Instantly, his hands flew to check his weapons, and stopped.

"Sorry," he muttered, hurrying away. He couldn't afford to draw attention to himself. They were here to find that med kit and leave. Nothing more. Besides, this seemed to be the nicest ville he'd ever seen since his own barony back in Virginia.

"Hey!"

Ryan turned, his hand resting on the handle of the panga inside his shirt. Hopefully, it appeared as if he were merely scratching an itch. But the stranger's throat was one fast step away from eternal silence.

"Yeah?" Ryan asked bluntly.

"Nice boots," the big man said, displaying a mouthful of broken teeth. His hands were covered with the fine scars of brawling, his ears lumpy from badly thrown punches. But he stood on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, not the flat soles. This was a professional fighter, not some alleyway thug. Krysty eased herself away from the two and started to edge behind the newcomer.

"Yeah?" Ryan said noncommittally.

The thug stepped closer. "I could use a pair like those, and they're in my size." Ryan knew where this was going. No chance of him backing out, and he couldn't just chill the man.

He'd have to do this the hard way. Bending his fingers at the knuckles, Ryan kept his hand flat and started forward when he froze motionless.

Over the man's shoulder, Ryan could dimly see minuscule flashes of light from inside the shadows of the skysc.r.a.per. A firefight was raging on the top floor, and the strobing muzzle-flashes could only be autofire blasters. The ville sec men he'd seen had only bolt-action rifles and revolvers. And they certainly would have used autofire blasters the previous night. Which meant it was J.B. and his Uzi, or whoever was using the HK G-12.

"Hey, I'm talking wid you!" the man stated gruffly, grabbing Ryan by the shoulder and spinning him.

"Now gimme the boots, punk!"

Ryan bent over as if to comply, then stood fast and rammed his fingertips straight into the man's throat.

Gasping for air, the thug backed away. Swinging a boot, Ryan caught the man between the legs. Breath exploded from the thug, and as he bent over in pain, the one-eyed man raised his knee to catch him on the way down. The impact straightened out the thug, almost flipping him over. Arms flailing, he hit the ground like wet newspaper and lay there, bleeding from the ruin of his face.

Some gasps rose from the crowd nearby, but most kept moving, unwilling to become embroiled in a fight that wasn't their concern. Some shopkeepers closed their doors, and a few folk turned into alleys to avoid the clear s.p.a.ce that had magically appeared around the combatants.

"What's going on here?" a man demanded, pushing a path through the milling throng. The man was big and muscular, wearing good clothes, with a revolver holstered on his hip, a stout club in his grip and a red band of cloth on his arm marked with a white circle and a big blue letter A.

But all of the identifying items of a sec man were unnecessary. As soon as he had spoken, Ryan knew it was a guard from his att.i.tude toward the crowd. They weren't people to serve or a.s.sist, but a problem the man had to handle quietly before he could get back to his interrupted drinking.

"All right, gleeb," he barked, fixing Ryan with a menacing stare. "Did you attack this man? We got laws about fighting near the greenhouses. You bust a pane of clear gla.s.s, and it's fifty strokes of the whip."

Aside from an acknowledging grunt, Ryan didn't reply, calculating his chances of making a break into the open doorway of the blacksmith shop. Once out of sight and over the bellows, he could ace the sec man and find someplace to hide. He noticed that Krysty had already gone, blending into the crowd. They had agreed upon that. If one got caught, the other stayed free to finish the job. The clock was ticking on Dean, and minutes counted.

Then four more sec men converged on the sleeping giant, and Ryan knew there was no escape. He'd have to talk his way out of this mess. A difficult matter when he didn't even know the name of the ville or the baron who ruled there.

"Trouble?" asked the leader of the new group, a hand resting on the b.u.t.t of his blaster. The others fanned out behind him to establish a greater presence of authority.

"Yeah, I think so," the first guard murmured.

Ryan noted that several shops had closed their doors, and folks were avoiding this section of the street.

He had a gren, and wondered how best to use it-blow up a greenhouse or try to kill as many sec men ashe could. Both had their downside.

"Hey, Roberto!" called out a thin man eating an apple as he walked over from the market square.

The first guard scowled for a moment, then relaxed slightly. "Hey, Dawson. See what happened?"

"Sure. Crusher tried to roust the new guy," Dawson said, munching contentedly. "Bad mistake."

"Didn't think anybody could take Crusher but the hunchback," said one of the other guards.

Already the tension was starting to diminish, and Ryan felt the muscles in his arms unkink. Somebody had vouched for him, and as far as the sec men were concerned, the matter was already over.

"Did he, now? Fair enough, then. You want to kick him some more while he's down?" Roberto asked, still brandishing his club. "Somebody attacks you for no reason, you get to pound them. It's a law we got to discourage brawling."

"Nah, he ain't going to bother me none again," Ryan said.

The second group of sec men seemed satisfied, and moved on, but one of the men stared hard at Ryan before leaving, as if trying to memorize his features, or worse, recall them.

Dawson finished the apple, then tucked it into a pocket. "Pretty good with your fists," he acknowledged.

"Got an a.s.signment yet from Leonard?"

"Tomorrow. He was busy," Ryan risked saying. Then on impulse, he threw back his cowl as if having nothing to hide.

Roberto laughed. "Yeah, the kid tries to run the whole ville. But then, he'll be baron when Strichland dies."

"Seems like an okay guy."

Tapping the wooden club against his leg, Roberto frowned. "Don't let that smiling face fool you, newbie.

The baron would toss his own mother into the Machine."

"Ain't that the truth," Dawson added, his face as somber as the tone of his voice.

There was that word again. Ryan filed that phrase away, along with the sound of real fear in the guard's voice. "Meant Leonard."

"Oh, yeah, he's okay. Pretty good in a fight, too. And smart. He's the one who thought of the greenhouses. We call him the Brain in the barracks." The club was brandished. "But you didn't hear that from me."

"Hear what?" Ryan asked blandly.

A slow smile. "Quick. You're very quick. What's your name?"

"Finnegan," Ryan replied, recalling an old friend who no longer walked the Deathlands. "Friends call me Finn." Dawson licked his sticky fingers clean. "Any good with a blaster?"

"Some."

"Yeah?" Roberto scratched his head with the club. "Know how to turn a regular lead bullet into a dumdum?"

"f.u.c.king carefully," Ryan stated honestly.

Both men laughed. "You'll do, Finn," Dawson said, smiling. "After your stint in the muck, try for security. We always need tough guys." He glanced at the supine form in the sand. "And I think you'll fit right in."

"Thanks."

"Better than weeding," Roberto added, as he turned and strolled away. "Or wall duty."

"Yar, anything is better than that. Well, see ya later, Finn."

"Later," Ryan agreed.

Having said their piece and ascertained there were no problems, the sec men went back to their business, and the crowds flowed around Ryan again. The fight was over, and the disturbance in their ville had been settled. Life went on again.

Some kids darted out from the legs of the crowd and started going through Crusher's pocket, and Roberto halfheartedly chased them away.

Retreating to the safety of the market square, Ryan looked for Krysty, but she was nowhere to be seen.