Moon Fate Read online

  Moon Fate

  The Deathland Series

  Book XVI

  James Axler

  First edition September 1992

  ISBN 0-373-62516-2

  Copyright © 1992 by Worldwide Library

  Philippine copyright 1992

  Australian copyright 1992

  Content

  Quote

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Quote

  From “The Outsider Is You”

  What is a biological mutation? It may be a slight imperfection on an earlobe, or an extra toe on each foot, or three eyes or two heads. Whatever form it takes, there is no doubt that it will inevitably lead to some degree of harassment and persecution by those in society who consider themselves to be "normal."

  By C. F. Kane

  Xanadu Press, Florida,

  Dedication

  This one is for Derek and Margaret for very many excellent reasons spread over many years. With my sincere thanks.

  Chapter One

  THE MORNING WAS scorching hot, and a light wind car­ried the sharp scent of sagebrush to the nostrils of Ryan Cawdor and his son, Dean. They stood to­gether, drawing in deep breaths of the New Mexico air.

  It hadn't been a bad jump.

  Dean had been sick, and Ryan had suffered a small nosebleed. But now they were out of the claustropho­bic depths of the ruined redoubt, only a few miles from Jak Lauren's homestead, where they could both have a good hot bath that would wash away the yel­low taint of sulfur that clung to them. A near deadly adventure in the cold north had left the pair coated with the stinking stuff.

  "We need a good meal—eggs, potatoes and some thick-sliced ham," Ryan said, putting his arm around the boy's shoulders. "And sleep for a day and a half."

  "Sure, then…" He paused, shading his eyes as he stared across the plain from the high ground. "What's that, Dad?"

  "Dust storm, or—"

  "Looks like smoke." Dean sniffed. "Yeah. You can actually smell it. Burned wood and a kind of scent like charred meat."

  The column of dark smoke rose and curled high above the desert until it vanished.

  It came from the direction of Jak and Christina Lauren's home.

  Ryan felt his heart shrink into cold marble.

  "Come on, Dean," he said quietly. "Best go take a look."

  BEHIND THEM in the redoubt's heart, the walls of the silvery armaglass that formed the gateway chamber were beginning to fill with a pallid mist, and the disks in floor and ceiling were starting to glow.

  Someone had triggered the mat-trans mechanism and was in the process of making a jump.

  Someone.

  Something?

  Chapter Two

  THE SHADOWS SHORTENED around them as they picked their way across the scorching desert. Every now and then the monotony of the plateau was broken by a towering saguaro, while the light breeze rustled among the dust-dry mesquite.

  The dark pillar of smoke grew thinner and paler, more like a hickory camp fire.

  "Could be something caught on the stove," Ryan said.

  Dean nodded.

  It was close to noon when they drew near to the edge of the ridge. Once they were on the other side they'd be able to see across the wide valley to the Lauren homestead in the distance.

  The wind had veered more northerly, whipping up occasional bunches of tumbleweed. A small hawk with a golden beak and a brilliantly crimson breast soared in the sky, wings spread, riding a thermal, eyes scan­ning the barren land below. The two walking figures had been spotted immediately as they left the re­doubt. But they were too large, and their gait was too regular to interest the bird of prey.

  Dean paused near the rim, still fifty paces short of being able to see over.

  "Not the cooking stove, is it?" he said.

  Ryan also stopped, bracing his shoulders to try to ease out some of the stiffness he'd acquired during the past few murderous days up north.

  "Mebbee, son. Mebbee not."

  The boy's young-old face turned to him. "You think it's trouble."

  "I think it could be."

  The boy spun on his heel and started to run toward the point where the plateau began to fall away. Ryan shouted after him, warning the boy to keep clear of the skyline. Dean slowed and then crouched, crawling the rest of the way on hands and knees. He stared at the scene a long time, then turned to face his father who was walking steadily toward him.

  "Not the cooking stove," he said flatly.

  The land was shrouded in a shimmering curtain of haze, with the temperature well above the hundred mark. It was difficult to see clearly when outlines were blurred. But father and son could see well enough to realize that the smoke had its origin on the spread owned by Christina and Jak.

  RYAN CARRIED his 9 mm P-226 SIG-Sauer with the built-in baffle silencer, his son had a big Browning Hi-Power tucked into his belt.

  But he knew that a couple of blasters weren't likely to prove much use against whatever it was that had attacked the fortified homestead and reduced it to smoldering ashes. Other than Christina and Jak, both well armed, Ryan's traveling companions, J. B. Dix, Krysty Wroth, Mildred Wyeth and Doc Tanner, had been there, with enough firepower between them to hold off a small army.

  The pair had more than halved the distance be­tween the bottom of the bluff and the spread, and every step brought a more chilling certainty that evil had walked this way.

  "Stop here," Ryan ordered a short time later.

  A scant quarter mile remained now, and they were close enough to see the details. Most of the buildings had gone, including the large weatherboard barn. Part of its back still stood, splintered and blackened, the interior awash with brimming smoke. The fences were also down, and there was no trace of the Laurens's livestock. From where they'd stopped, Ryan could see that the vegetable garden was trampled into rutted dirt.

  Worst was the house.

  Not one brick of the exterior or interior walls stood upon another. Every window was shattered into pieces in the dust. All that remained, like an accusing finger pointing toward the serene, cloudless sky, was the central chimney.

  Many months ago Doc had enthralled them with stories of what he called "the war between the States." He claimed that he'd
had an uncle, named Washing­ton Tanner, who'd fought on both sides in the great civil conflict, who'd marched from Atlanta to the sea, watched Richmond burn and had ridden with Quantrill and known a famous outlaw, Jesse James. Wash­ington Tanner had told his bright-eyed young nephew, Theo, about the ravaged land of Kansas, how houses were razed and families butchered, and all that a man saw as he cantered across the state, from dawn to dusk, were the tall stone chimneys.

  That thought came to Ryan as he stood with his son and looked intently at the total ruin of a friend's dream.

  "We going on?" Dean asked.

  "I'm going on. You're staying here. Keep watch out for my back. Yell if you see anything moving any­place. All right?"

  The boy nodded solemnly. "Sure, Dad." He hesi­tated. "You think that Jak, Krysty and…"

  "Wait here," Ryan replied, drawing his blaster and moving over the last quarter mile.

  THE GRINDING TIREDNESS of the days in and around the sulfur mines up north had taken their toll on him. Once he stumbled over some uneven ground, and once he realized that he'd lost concentration and had been walking mindlessly toward the ruins.

  "Fireblast!" He stopped and took several long, slow breaths. He knew it was partly a reaction against the desolation that faced him. The thought of being home, eating well and sleeping and making love with Krysty had filled his mind and kept him going. Now the earth had shifted beneath his feet and he didn't know what to do.

  The pause gave Ryan a chance to gather himself and his thoughts.

  The voice from behind him was shrill and nervous. "You okay?"

  He waved a hand to the boy and moved on.

  Ryan wished he'd been a better tracker. The dirt all around was clearly trying hard to tell him the story of what had happened, but he couldn't quite make it out.

  There were wagon tracks, deep furrows made from iron-rimmed wheels, crossing and crossing again. They seemed to have come in from the northwest of the homestead. The footprints had already become smudged and blurred by the ceaseless desert wind, but enough remained for him to see that there had been a large number of strangers around the spread. Adults and children.

  The breeze veered and freshened for a moment, blowing the smoke toward him, making him avert his face.

  "No spent rounds. No chills."

  It didn't make any sense to him.

  A lot of strangers had come along a day or so back, riding in ox wags, and now the farm was destroyed and everyone had vanished.

  He looked back at his son. "Cast around in a big circle, Dean, then come on in. Look for tracks leav­ing the place."

  The boy waved a hand and set off purposefully to the east. Ryan realized that Dean must be feeling just as gut weary as he did himself, but he kept on going.

  Near the house the signs were more confused, and more helpful.

  Ryan bent down, finding crusted patches of sand that had once been pools of fresh-spilled blood. He spotted a broken knife blade and three spent car­tridges from a 9 mm blaster. From their placement Ryan guessed that they'd been kicked out of an auto­matic weapon, like J.B.'s Uzi.

  The shattered remnants of some of the low walls of the outbuildings gave him another clue. They were pocked and chipped with fresh bullet holes, the spent lead gleaming like fool's gold against the smoke-dusted adobe.

  He stood still, his eye caught by the diminutive fig­ure of Dean plodding around a perimeter a quarter mile away. The ground to the north was far more rocky and wasn't likely to show any tracks.

  One thing was certain-sure—nobody was living anywhere near the Lauren spread. Everything was gone.

  Inside the ruined house there was nothing but ashes. Ryan sniffed, catching the unmistakable scent of gas­oline, which explained why the destruction had been so total. The place had been fired, and all of its con­tents destroyed. His toe caught on something almost buried in the soft ashes and he kicked at it, finding the springs of one of the beds, fused by the intense heat.

  There was some glass, melted into a shapeless puddle of dark green.

  There was no sign of any food left behind.

  With that realization came the awareness that he was very thirsty. Jak had kept some self-seals of beer in a cold box at the back of the kitchen. Ryan walked carefully through to where the rear wall had been, scuffling with his combat boots in the layers of fine ash. He discovered the remains of the store of cans and jars that Christina had built up, all totally ruined by the fire.

  The pall of gray that still hung over the farm made him think about the smokehouse out by the big barn. There'd been several hams and some joints of meat, along with dozens of dried strips of fish, dangling from the beams.

  Dean had completed his circuit and was now mak­ing his way slowly toward his father, constantly turn­ing his head from side to side.

  "Anything?"

  "Wags coming in and not going out."

  Ryan was puzzled. "Wags not gone. Must've done. Not here."

  "No. Seen them in that shallow draw back south, all burned out like the house. Just the wheel rims left in the ashes."

  It was making less and less sense.

  Who burned the wags?

  Why?

  And where had everyone gone, when there didn't seem to be any graves?

  THERE WAS STILL FOOD strung up on some of the scorched beams. Ryan stood looking at it, wondering at yet another piece in this increasingly bizarre puz­zle.

  Because the meat and the fish had all been smoked, it should have stayed edible for months, even in the heat of the New Mexico summer.

  But it was rancid, crawling with tiny yellow thread­worms. They'd bored through the firm, dry hams, so that they now crumbled apart in greasy fragments of rotting flesh.

  "So much for eating," Dean commented. "Didn't feel that hungry, anyways. But…"

  "The well," Ryan said. "Least we can get our­selves some good cold water."

  Saying it made the feeling of thirst much worse. He suddenly started thinking about bathing in the crystal streams that flowed from the high Sierras and bub­bled over sun-warmed boulders. There was the heightened awareness of how dry and cracked his lips were, his tongue swollen like old leather.

  The well was at the side of the main house, close to the tumbled barn. Ryan led the way, Dean at his heels.

  To his relief it didn't seem to have been damaged at all. From the amount of rope showing on the wind­lass, the bucket was near the bottom. He took hold of the smooth iron handle and began to wind it up.

  They could both hear the tinkling sound of drops of water falling from the bucket into the cool depths of the well.

  Just before Ryan finished turning the handle, with the top of the bucket in sight, he noticed something tied to the rope above the level of the water.

  It was a crumpled, handwritten note from Krysty Wroth.

  Chapter Three

  THE PAPER WAS handmade, with a crinkled, deckle edge. Written with a dark blue ink, the lettering was hasty and smudged.

  Ryan, lover, if you read this then you're alive and made it back. With Dean, I hope. Had some times of "seeing," but it was so dark, cold and wet I feared for you.

  Dean was reading over his father's shoulder, puzzling at some of the less legible parts but sticking with it.

  "She's a real doomie, isn't she?"

  "No. Doomies are double rare. They see the future. Krysty can't generally do that. She just has these 'feelings' that give clues. But she's right about cold, wet and dark."

  The letter continued.

  First things first. In Gaia's name, lover, don't drink the water. Not a drop. Even if your life depends on it. You'll have seen the meat in the smokehouse. Never mind what the water looks like, it's deadly poisoned. Wish had time to tell all, but we have to leave this place of blood. Job to do first. If time, will leave further note.

  "Where've they gone?" Dean said, falling behind as Ryan turned over the piece of paper to read the other side.

  "Hasn't said yet."

  Remember, do
n't drink or eat anything until you're away beyond the gorge to the north. We've gone there. Follow us soonest, lover.

  Krysty

  "North?" the boy repeated, hand resting on the butt of his blaster.

  "What she says."

  Dean reached and swung the bucket in toward himself, balancing it on the rough stone rim of the old well. He stared at its limpid contents, shaking his head, blue eyes turning questioningly toward his father.

  "Looks okay, Dad."

  "Krysty couldn't have put it more strongly. You know her and you know she won't—"

  "But we could mebbe try it and—"

  "For fuck's sake, Dean, cut it out!" He couldn't hide the anger and the tiredness.

  To relieve the moment of tension, he pushed at the bucket, sending it falling to the well. The windlass spun fast as the rope uncoiled again, and there was the hollow splash as the bucket struck the surface of the water.

  The boy took three clumsy steps backward, nearly tripping over a length of burned wood. "I only thought we…"

  Ryan shook his head. "No, no, son. You didn't think. That's the whole point."

  "Sorry."

  "Never apologize, Dean. It's a sign of weakness."

  "We've got to have some water."

  "Sure. Krysty says the gorge north. That's about six miles. Five, mebbee."

  The boy sighed. "It's so hot."

  Ryan looked around. There was a small patch of shade behind the last remaining chunk of the barn wall. Overhead, the sun was blazingly high, turning the gray sand to an oven.

  "Rest up until dusk, then go for the gorge. Could catch up with the others by this time tomorrow."

  "Truth?"

  "Sure."

  THE SUN WAS STILL well up over the western hills, but its cruel heat had diminished. Beyond a bank of high cloud they could see the vivid beginnings of a spec­tacular chem storm. Great streaks of pink and purple lightning were stripping layers off the sky, exploding into star bursts of nameless colors from beyond deep space.

  "She say another note?"

  "If she could."