Deathlands - Zero City Part 8

"Move to the wall!" he shouted, dropping the empty Steyr and drawing his panga while firing the SIG-Sauer. "Get the leader!"

The largest wolf snarled at the one-eyed warrior, and the rest of them repeated the challenge.

"Brace!" J.B. cursed, fumbling in his munitions bag. "Going to use a gren!"

But as if they knew what those words meant, the animals stopped running and crouched in fear, their haunches raising in submission. Uncaring, J.B. raised a gren and pulled the pin, pausing to gauge for distance. But then their eyes glazed over and a third eye blossomed wide, the yellowish orb glaring with monstrous hatred.

"They're muties!" Mildred yelled. At her words, the foreheads of the wolf pack split open to display a third eye with a large square pupil, like a goat's. Then they charged, moving across the sandy street with nightmare speed.

Krysty got in one more shot, and J.B. burped the Uzi twice in short controlled bursts, chilling one wolf and wounding another, before the animals swarmed over them from every direction.

Kicking at the slavering muties, the companions fired nonstop, wounding the animals over and over, but not one dropped. Snarling and snapping, the animals took wild bites, but only got layers of cloth. They spit the material out in disgust. Krysty fired the M-60 one final time, then was forced to stop, her hands helpless on the trigger of the deadly machine gun. Without a clear view, she could chill her own people instead.

Slamming in a fresh clip, Ryan shot the leader in the leg and as it closed upon him, he kicked the wolf in the jaw, his steel-toed Army crunching bone. Spitting teeth, the animal backed away, drooling blood.

Sidestepping a charge by two wolves working together, Dean punched one in the face with his empty blaster and buried his knife into the other one's muscular shoulder. Jak quickly fired his booming Magnum pistol twice, nicking a darting wolf, then his blaster clicked on a spent sh.e.l.l. He was out of ammo, and there was no chance in h.e.l.l of reloading it. Sputtering a virulent curse, the albino teen dropped the blaster, and two knives appeared in his pale hands. With a flip, one was reversed with the flat of the blade resting along the bone of his forearm, and the teenager went into a knife fighter's attack crouch. A wolf flew past him, and he slit the beast's belly open as it went by. Spilling out its writhing guts, the wolf trembled and fell over, its long legs starting to paw the sand as if it were still charging. Incredibly, it started to rise again, so J.B. discharged his shotgun directly into the hole where the third eye had been.

Its head blew apart into bones and blood, and the animal dropped.

Darting and dodging, the wolves bit more cloth, the rips now exposing vulnerable flesh. Steady as a rock, Doc stood amid the yipping muties and calmly fired a seventh, eighth and ninth time, his huge .44 LeMat booming hot lead death. The booms shook the walls of the store, and blood sprayed out from the hip of the wolf. But the animal neither slowed nor stopped from the glancing blow.

Her back against the wall, med kit laying protectively at her feet, Mildred banged away carefully with her ZKR 551 target pistol, finally wounding one animal in the shoulder, blood forming a geyser from the severed femoral artery. The wolf staggered from the wound, and Ryan rammed the stock of his Steyr into its face, bursting apart the third eye. Puss and wiggling filaments gushed from the cranial wound, and the wolf froze, motionless from the pain. Ramming his 9 mm blaster into its ear, Ryan fired and brainssprayed out the other side of its head. The corpse stiffly toppled over to the b.l.o.o.d.y sand.

Dean charged a wolf, shoving his Browning blaster into its misshapen face. He yanked the trigger as the wolf dodged. The bullet missed, but the muzzle-blast seared the unblinking third eye and the wolf retreated, howling in agony.

A wild honking noise announced the violent arrival of the Hummer as Krysty slammed the military wag against the brick wall alongside the companions, the headlights shattering as she crushed a wolf into pulp.

Now safely bracketed in a corner, the companions concentrated their weapons on the animals, blowing away chunks of flesh with every round.

The alpha wolf recoiled as half its head was torn away, and two smaller muties alongside it crumpled from the impact of the hollowpoint rounds. Another pair of muties was slammed to the ground, blood gushing from hideous wounds.

The last mutie dashed madly about between the moving human legs, zigzagging wildly as it sought escape. Blasters fired and knives stabbed, but missed. Desperate, it leaped onto the hood of the Hummer. Krysty burped the M-60, but the .38 hollowpoint rounds only grazed its body, removing wads of mangy fur.

Diving among the humans, it bounced off the side of Dean, ducked between Ryan's legs and broke free from the group, sprinting for freedom. But it suddenly stopped with a full yard of shining steel thrust through its laboring chest. Snarling himself, Doc twisted the blade of his sword, enlarging the wound, and dark blood gushed onto the sidewalk. Whimpering in agony, the mutie struggled to get away, its goat eye rolling backward into its head until only the yellow showed. Bracing a boot on the writhing beast, Doc yanked the blade free and thrust it back in again and again, skewering the chest, the stomach, the throat, searching for the vulnerable heart. Still trying to crawl away, the beast emptied its bowels as its whole body violently shuddered and went abruptly still.

Withdrawing his blade from the corpse, Doc cleaned the Toledo steel on the animal's fur, then again on a bit of cloth from a pocket. Visually inspecting the long shaft for any damage, he returned it to the ebony sheath of his walking cane, where it snapped tightly into place.

"Blasted muties," Jak growled. Watching the interior of the supermarket for any further movement, he cracked open the cylinder of his Colt Python, pocketed the spent .357 sh.e.l.ls and thumbed in fresh ammo.

Retrieving a dropped clip for the Uzi, J.B. stood and tucked it away. "Never seen this type before."

The filaments of her hair waving about in agitation, Krysty clicked shut the reloaded cylinder of her S&W .38, tucking the blaster in a holster at her hip. "Thankfully, these wolves are a lot easier to kill than those h.e.l.lhounds we encountered in Ohio," she remarked without humor.

"Easier ain't easy," Jak said, rubbing a set of parallel scratches on his throat. "b.a.s.t.a.r.ds fast."

Mildred walked over and took hold of his jaw, turning the teenager's head to inspect the red marks on his albino skin. "Didn't break the dermis," the physician announced, and released him. "You should be okay. But let me clean it, so you don't go septic." Opening her bag, she anointed him with a splash of alcohol.

"Thanks," he muttered, gingerly touching the scratch. "Just be glad it didn't chew your a.s.s." She grinned.

Brushing the snowy hair off his face, Jak snorted in response.

The distant rumble of an approaching storm sounded in the cloudy sky as Dean picked up the ejected bra.s.s from his blaster and dropped it into a pocket for later reloading. One of them seemed bent, which meant it was useless, but he could check on that later. Carefully, the boy inspected his Browning for any signs of fouling from being dropped in the sand, and when satisfied, he inserted a fresh magazine.

Snapping off the safety and working the slide, the boy walked away from the group and stood guard at the corner of the intersection.

"Mildred, check the bodies," Ryan directed, retrieving his rifle from the ground.

Kneeling at a warm corpse, the woman displayed a b.l.o.o.d.y knife. "Already doing that."

"Good." Brushing the sand off his dropped rifle, Ryan worked the bolt, slid in a fresh clip and slung the weapon over a shoulder. Then checking the area, he noted that Dean was already standing guard without waiting for directions. He felt a rush of pride.

"J.B., Doc, recce the market," Ryan ordered, the longblaster held easily in both hands. "See if there are any more of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds around."

"Or supplies," Jak added.

Doc eased back the hammer on the LeMat as the Armorer pulled out a gren. Together, the men stepped through the broken window and into the grocery store, J.B. pausing at the registers to let Doc proceed, then the old man doing the same at the head of the first aisle as J.B. crept past him in a standard two-man defensive rotation pattern.

"Slick move with the Hummer," Ryan told the redhead as he walked over. "You okay?"

"Fine," Krysty replied, pumping gas and trying to start the engine. It took two tries before the big power plant caught. "Just angry that they got so close before I saw them."

As she backed the wag away from the brick wall, the wolfs body stayed where it was as if nailed in place.

"Headlight's broken," Ryan reported. "So no more night driving until we can replace it at the redoubt.

Pop the hood."

She did, and he listened to the humming engine.

"No real damage," Ryan stated, closing the hood and latching it in place. "Thankfully, the Army built these things to take damage and keep going:"

A whistle heralded the appearance of J.B. and Doc from within the predark store.

"Clear," J.B. reported. "No more wolves, not even cubs. Also, nothing much usable on the shelves. All of the cans are empties, just there to make the store look like it's full of goods. It was expertly cleaned out long ago." "This was all we appropriated," Doc added, lifting a plastic bag of bottles and gla.s.s jugs. "Some grape preserves, Band-Aid bandages and a few odds and ends."

"I expected as much," Ryan said with a sour expression. "But it never hurts to check. Stow it away, and check the side streets, will you?"

Doc deposited the bag of food carefully in the cargo area of the Hummer, while J.B. climbed into the wag and set the safety on the M-60 before easing off the bolt. The military blaster was one hundred years old, and even though it was in perfect operational condition, it wasn't wise to keep tension on the firing spring. Otherwise, next time he used it the weapon would break, becoming a twenty-two-pound paperweight.

A brisk wind formed little dust devils on the street, the miniature tornadoes twirling madly before slowing into nonexistence.

"Storm coming," Jak said. "Soon."

"Yeah, I know. How's it going, Mildred?" Ryan asked, cradling the Steyr in his arms.

"This is the last," the black woman replied, running her hands over the corpse of another wolf. Not all of the beasts had that third eye of a mutant, but this was the last one to check. Carefully, she inspected its forehead, teeth, eyes, then legs, bending the joints to observe the configurations.

Satisfied for the moment, she pulled a knife from a sheath inside her boot and began to make incisions in the chest and abdomen, turning the internal organs around to review everything. Ryan and the others waited impatiently, watching her every move.

A tumbleweed rolled across the intersection, traveling with the wind on a endless journey to nowhere.

After a few minutes, Mildred raised her head, smiling. "Clean!" she declared. "This one isn't a mutie."

Pushing his hat into a more comfortable position, J.B. smiled. "Hot d.a.m.n. Steak tonight."

Jak and Dean stayed at their posts, while Ryan and Krysty joined Mildred at the dead animal. They produced knives and began dressing the stiffening carca.s.s. Incisions were circled around the paws and throat, then down the belly to the tail. The skin was peeled off, the fur carefully kept whole and the meat wrapped in the skin with pieces of b.l.o.o.d.y ligament used to tie the package closed.

"Time to leave," Ryan announced, wiping his sticky hands on a rag from the Hummer's toolbox. "The gunshots and the smell of blood will attract both kinds of animals we don't want to deal with right now."

"One additional problem," Mildred said, shouldering her med kit. "All of these were males. Not one b.i.t.c.h among the pack."

Pa.s.sing off the rag, Ryan frowned. "Great. So this was just a hunting party, and the rest are out there somewhere."

"Probably a whole lot more than fourteen," Krysty said. "And when their mates don't come back, the females will come hunting." With a guttural cry, Doc spun, drawing his blaster. The rest of the companions copied the action and separated slightly, an automatic reaction learned the hard way from countless ambushes.

"What is it, Doc?" Ryan snapped, the long barrel of the Steyr resting on the hood of the wag, giving him stability and cover.

"Somebody on the roofs?" Krysty asked, her S&W .38 tracking the sky.

Doc didn't reply for a moment, but just stood there in the street, the Civil War blaster tightly held in both hands while another tiny dust devil danced about his worn shoes. His face was scrunched, head tilted as if concentrating on hearing something.

"Could have sworn I heard a car engine," Doc said slowly, as if unsure of his words. "Mayhap I was mistaken."

Jak and Dean exchanged glances, but kept their weapons in a ready stance. Neither had heard a thing, certainly not a working engine, and the Deathlands winds were famous for playing tricks with sound.

"An engine?" J.B. said thoughtfully. "Could be the sec men coming to check out the blaster noise."

Ryan looked over the group. They were ready to keep going, to negotiate with the sec men right here and now. But he knew they were as tired as he was. Too little food and too many jumps had weakened all of them. And tired people made mistakes, which got them chilled.

"Let's go and find some place to cook dinner," he directed, climbing behind the wheel of the vehicle and starting the engine. "We'll deal with the baron tomorrow after a full stomach and a good night's sleep."

"Sounds good to me," Krysty said, taking the pa.s.senger seat with a sigh. The others hesitated, but finally relented, the hunger in their bellies overcoming their impatience to deal with the tricksters from the ville.

LETTING GO of the rotting curtain, Harold stepped away from the second-floor window of the predark hotel. This was where he rested before journeying across the desert to the secret armory of the old baron. But there was no need to make the trip when those people across the street had everything he wanted. Blasters, and a wag that still worked. That alone should buy Laura her freedom.

Watching them drive off, Harold scrambled down the stairs to follow them, a plan already forming in his mind. He wanted to jump onto their wag from above, but the voices told him to follow the strangers and wait until after they had eaten. Food would make them sleepy. That was the time to strike.

Chapter Seven.

"Dinner will be ready soon," Ryan announced, turning over the steaks with a pair of tongs. The tantalizing smell was making everyone anxious in antic.i.p.ation, but the meat wouldn't be served until thoroughly cooked and there wasn't the slightest trace of pink on the inside. He was going to make d.a.m.n sure there would be no case of poisoning from the wild animal.

The interior of the p.a.w.nshop was warm and well lit. There had been some camping lanterns, which still contained a quant.i.ty of kerosene, and gave them all the light needed. The windows were covered with layers of thick blankets from the upstairs apartments to keep the lights from giving away their location through the frosty windows. Ryan remembered the Trader teaching him that while banks made good bolt-holes with their stout walls and bulletproof windows, and high schools were excellent for long-term bases with their machine shops, libraries and such, for a short stay, p.a.w.nshops were the best. Stout iron bars covered the windows, and a flexible steel grating completely masked the front window. Even the back door was a solid slab of wood with 54-gauge sheet steel bolted over the whole thing. And they were often undisturbed, as most folks had no idea what the cla.s.sic three bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s of the store meant anymore. Almost always there were piles of useful supplies inside.

The shop consisted of one large room with a center island of heavy tables covered with speakers, stereos, air conditioners, television sets and a.s.sorted electrical equipment. A brace of sec cameras hung impotently from the ceiling, and a gla.s.s-topped counter ran around the walls. The left-side counter was covered with racks of musical instruments, while the right was jammed full of blasters-rifles and shotguns of every type imaginable. Not an inch of wall s.p.a.ce was unused. Inside the waist-high gla.s.s cases were rows of wallets, watches, cell phones, pagers and a vast array of pistols.

He flipped over the steaks and dodged a fat spit of frying grease. True, the ancient blasters were useless, the barrels and mechanisms clogged with clots of dried oil, but with a good cleaning there were enough blasters here to outfit an army. And a whole display case of handblasters, also deadweight until disa.s.sembled and cleaned and oiled. A few were still in their sales boxes; being unused, they were in a lot better condition than the rest. In the back vault-actually an old-fashioned standing safe resembling a cast-iron refrigerator-they had located trays of diamond rings, and other pretty jewelry, deeds to cars and homes that no longer existed and a lot of ammo. Also dead. Cordite lasted a lot longer than black powder or gunpowder, but after two hundred years even the best deteriorated into a goop as explosive as dandruff.

A bowling trophy case in the corner of the p.a.w.nshop had been easily converted into a rough kitchen, the trophies removed to hold any of the canned goods from the apartment upstairs that Mildred deemed edible. Incredibly, there had even been a spice rack, and the Deathlands warrior knew from experience that a few centuries only made most spices tastier. Which was just about the only good thing that ever came out of skydark.

"Mmm. Smells ready," Jak said, his stomach rumbling at the idea of cooked meat. It had been hours since their meager breakfast of cold beans, and even the raw wolf was starting to smell good. He remembered being hungrier than this, but not for a while.

"Anytime is good for me," J.B. added, sitting in a cane-back chair, the Uzi in his lap. He was situated right next to the front door, keeping an ear on the street outside. The only sounds were the whispery desert winds and the occasional hoot of an owl.

Repacking the instruments from the med kit in precise order for ease of use in an emergency, Mildred glanced up from her work. "Are you sure the Hummer is going to be okay in that garage next door?

Without it, we have a long walk back to the redoubt."

"Took ignition fuse," Jak said, lifting the tiny item into view from a pocket. "Took spare gas. LAWs and M-60 here with us."

"Besides, the wag is under a sheet of canvas," J.B. added with a grin. "Inside a locked building with a b.o.o.by trap on the door. That wag won't go nowhere."

"Anybody who reaches it now has my permission." Krysty laughed. "Sir, it has been quite a while. Should I go spell Dean on the rooftop?" Doc asked, sitting on a stool. He was steadily stropping the blade of his swordstick with a whetstone. The polished steel shone like a mirror in the clear light of the lanterns.

Moving the steaks about so they wouldn't stick to the grill, Ryan glanced at a loudly ticking wall clock.

Once they had rewound the mainspring, the machine worked fine. Too bad it was much too big to bring along. And naturally, all of the watches in the display cases were battery powered. Precision timepieces made out of gold and with jewel points, they were useless junk nowadays. He made a mental note to check and see if there was an antique store in the city.

"Not for a while. Two-hour rotations," he stated, sliding another piece of wood into the flames. The grease from the cooking meat dribbled off the grill, making the flames surge upward spitting and crackling. It smelled wonderful. "Don't give him any special treatment just because he's young. He's old enough to carry his share of the load."

"Besides," he added. "Two have an urge to chat, and we're laying low. He'll be fine."

"As you say," Doc replied. He had made the suggestion, and that was as far as he could broach the subject. He knew that the three things n.o.body should openly discuss were: how to raise a child, how to make up with a lover and how to go to h.e.l.l.

Finished with the packing, Mildred removed her stiff boots and started to ma.s.sage her feet when some odd scratching and pops sounded. Across the shop, Krysty stepped away from a weird moving machine.

The cranking handle on the side spun steadily, as the platter turned under the huge needle and from the curving horn, a tenor started to faintly sing in another language.

The physician's expression of puzzlement gave way to profound pleasure. "Good G.o.d, that's Enrico Caruso," she said. "I can't believe that old Victrola phonograph still works!"

"Built things to last in those days," Doc said proudly, sliding the sword into his cane with a snap.

"Nothing electronic or computerized, just springs and honest steel."

"Nothing wrong with science," J.B. said, crossing his feet at the ankles on top of a bra.s.s spittoon. "You just can't let it run the world, is all."

Glancing up from a VR helmet he was examining, Jak said, "Purpose of science to explain, not define."

Everybody turned to look askance at the teenager.

"William Blake," Jak muttered in annoyance. They always seemed surprised that he knew anything.

Returning to their respective ch.o.r.es, the companions listened to the singer for a few minutes, then in a crescendo of music, the man stopped and applause thundered. Rising from a stool, Krysty dutifully flipped over the record to the other side. Unfortunately, this was the only disk she could find. There didn't seem to be any jazz or swing in stock which she had heard before and enjoyed, but cla.s.sical was better than no music, she supposed. After Krysty cranked the handle a few more times, the tenor started another incomprehensible song.