Judas Strike - Deathlands 54 Page 10

  "Okay, swabs, batten down the hatches!" a bosun called out from amidships, his wet shirt clinging to his muscular chest. "Or do ya wanna swim home!"

  Glassman watched as the crew hustled into action, lashing down loose items of equipment, tightening ropes and covering the machine guns and torpedoes with old plastic sheeting that was heavily patched.

  Just then, the speeding craft gently rose and fell as something colossal disturbed the water directly under the petey and continued onward, heading directly for the brewing storm on the horizon. The pilot went pale, the crew whispered curses and Glassman felt clammy, his heart pounding in his chest. They had just sailed past death itself, a sea mutie.

  With an effort of will, the captain put the event out of his mind and concentrated on the work at hand. There was nothing to be afraid of; death was just part of life in the Cific. And often a welcome release.

  PAUSING, Krysty pointed with the barrel of her weapon. Only a few yards away, the form of a woman was sprawled on the filthy soil. Feebly, she raised a hand, struggling to accomplish the action as if her limb weighed a million pounds.

  "Here…" the ghostly voice whispered once more. "R-Ryan."

  It was a woman, dressed in rags, her body covered with dark discolored bruises. Her arms were skeleton thin, her cheeks sunken and sallow. On her arm was the brand of a slave.

  "Who the hell are you?" Ryan asked, scowling, his blaster pointing directly at her heart.

  "I w-was on…" she gasped, "S-Spider Island."

  Ryan's scowl deepened, but he moved aside the blaster. There was no way a local slave could know that. Quickly, he dragged the dead man off her legs as Krysty knelt on the ground and opened her canteen to trickle some of the tepid water into the woman's mouth. She drank it greedily and sighed in relief.

  "Been so long…" she croaked, then broke into a ragged cough. "You're really here. Not another dream…"

  "We're real," Krysty said softly, trying to brush aside the tangles of hair covering the woman's face. But the hair was stuck to her skin in spots from the dried residue of sickness.

  "You were on the Constellation, right?" Krysty asked, drawing a blade. Cutting a relatively clean shirt off a dead man, she splashed some more water from her canteen onto the rag and mopped the woman's face clean. The smell from the dead around them was terrible. Most were lying in dried pools of their own vomit and feces.

  Blinking to focus her eyes, the woman nodded. "I was…one of the slaves who refused to join the crew."

  When her face was clear of filth, Krysty could see the woman was actually a girl about Dean's age. Once she might have been pretty, but the enduring scars of privation had shrunk her features into a gnarled visage. She looked a hundred seasons old, Gaia help her. Food and rest might make her strong again, but nothing would remove these scars of hunger.

  "Part of the crew, eh?" Ryan demanded, glancing around them. There was no other movement in sight, nor anybody else who looked familiar. But then, the corpses were all so thin and emaciated, the Trader himself could be ten feet away and Ryan would never know it.

  "What was wrong? Didn't like the deal I offered, eh?" Ryan said smoothly, studying her reaction.

  Licking cracked lips, the girl frowned. "Wasn't you. Old man, silver hair…"

  Good enough. Kneeling in the muck, Ryan slid his powerful arms under her frail body and lifted the girl. She weighed next to nothing. His ammo pouch felt heavier.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded, her eyes unnaturally large in her sunken face.

  "Taking you with us," he said. "Gave you my word back on that island, and it's still good."

  "Thank you…"

  "Shut up," Ryan said with surprising gentleness. "Go to sleep."

  "Ann," she croaked, closing her eyes. "My name is Ann."

  "Go to sleep, Ann," he repeated. "You're safe now. My word."

  "Safe," she said, the word becoming a whimper, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Then she touched his face with a trembling hand. "I know where it is, the machine you want."

  Startled, Ryan stared at the women hard and started to speak, but she went limp, fallen unconscious. The strain of talking had to have been too much for her in that weakened condition.

  Inhaling deeply, Ryan sharply whistled three long times. Three short whistles replied, and soon the rest of the companions came running up, weapons out, looking for trouble.

  "By the Three Kennedys, what a stench in this area," Doc rumbled, holding his embroidered swallow-eyed handkerchief to his nose. Not even the pig pit of his slave days smelled as bad as this ville. Never before had he prayed for acid rain before, but it was just what this hellhole needed to wash it clean.

  "Good Lord, is she alive?" Mildred asked, and went straight to the girl in Ryan's arms. She felt for a pulse in the wrist, then tried again on the neck.

  "Aced?" Jak asked, looking over her shoulder.

  "Alive," the physician stated. "But just barely. Let's get her out of here."

  "Located the baron's box at the other end of the ville," J.B. said, wrinkling his nose. "Or mebbe it'd be better if we got her out of here, get some fresh air."

  "We can make camp outside the wall," Dean suggested. "Digging a fire pit is easy in sand."

  "Too cold on the beach with the wind," Mildred said. "Warmth is the important thing right now."

  "This way," J.B. said, starting across the compound.

  "Hate to leave the gate unguarded," Doc rumbled, glancing that way. "Visigoths and rapscallions abound in these islands."

  "You mean coldhearts?" Dean asked.

  Doc smiled. "Indeed, my young friend. That is exactly what I mean. Men with cold hearts."

  "Leave it," Ryan said, shaking his head to dispel the returning clouds of flies. "There's nothing here anybody would want."

  "'Cept us," Jak stated.

  After J.B. passed around some more fuel, the flies departed again. Crossing the open center of the ville, the companions found the baron's box at the opposite end of the ville away from the gate. Iron bars covered the windows, and a crude wooden door leaned against the open doorway. Bamboo racks of crude spears stood in place, ready to repel invaders. A rusty bed frame stood upright in the ground, a damaged fishing net spread over it for repairs. Only a few yards away was a brick well, standing right next to a bamboo hut that clearly was a public latrine.

  "Idiots," Mildred muttered under her breath.

  Watching the empty windows lining the two layers of steel boxes, Krysty felt her hair fan outward when a cough sounded from somewhere, echoes disguising the distance and direction.

  "More folks dying," Ryan said, scanning his good eye over the curved wall of identical containers.

  "Poor bastards," Doc said, but he kept a hand resting on the grip of the LeMat in its holster.

  Going to a window, Jak waited for J.B. to cover the door with his Uzi, then he tossed a stone into the box. It hit something wooden, then rattled around on the metal floor. After waiting a moment, the teenager chanced a look inside.

  "Clear," he reported.

  Doc and Dean pulled the heavy door aside, and Ryan walked into the box, careful not to hit Ann's head on the badly cut doorway. Inside, there were tables made from wooden spools for holding coils of cables, and chairs of bamboo tied together with vines. Most of the knots were already frayed and unraveling. A ratty bed with rags sticking out of the mattress stood in a corner, and there was a stone fireplace with stacks of seasoned wood. Inside was an empty aluminum pot sitting on a triangle of bricks. One of the tables was stacked with pieces of blasters, flintlocks and predark revolvers, mixed together. Lying in alabaster clamshells was a collection of tools—worn hammers, blunt chisels, twisted screwdrivers and the like. Everything was smeared with fatty grease to keep away rust, and bunches of dried herbs hung from the metal wall to keep flies off the protective lard.

  There was no sign of the baron, or any sec men.

  "Set her here," Mildred directed, going to the only bed.

  R
yan placed the girl on the dirty mattress and looked around for a blanket of some kind to cover her. Nothing was in sight. Without comment, Doc slid off his frock coat and placed it over the still girl.

  "Would have thought steel boxes would make for a good home," J.B. said, pushing back his hat. "Obviously not." There was no second floor, or another door to use for escape. Probably too tough to cut the plate steel.

  Dean took a seat on one of the tables, the old wood creaking under his weight. "Think that dozer moved the boxes to make the wall?" he asked.

  "No, they used slaves," his father replied bluntly, lifting a set of shackles from the tool bench. "I'll bet there's a lot of flesh and blood crushed between these layers of steel."

  "Get a fire going," Mildred ordered, pulling a chair close to the bed. "We need more heat in here, and make some bouillon. No coffee or tea. She needs salt."

  Jak went to the fireplace and got busy. Doc dropped his backpack and began to rummage around for MRE packs.

  "Can you save her?" Ryan asked, leaning against the wall. "She knows something about the gateway."

  Mildred shrugged. In a proper hospital with a full medical staff, there would be no problem. Ann was warm, and cleaner. She had received clean water, and broth was coming. Antibiotics was what she needed now. Spreading the canvas flap of her med kit, Mildred took out a plastic sandwich box, popped the top and removed a plastic film canister, the kind photographers kept undeveloped rolls of film in. Burping the top, Mildred opened the canister and removed a folded foil board. Military antibiotics, the good stuff. She hadn't seen better in years. However, even under ideal conditions the medicine would stay potent for ten years. Mildred could only hope there was a little life left after a full century.

  Using a thumb, she pressed five of the tablets out of their bubbles and tucked the rest away. Knowing the stuff would taste as bitter as hell, Mildred crashed the tablets and mixed them with a full pack of sugar from a MRE pack. Adding some water, she swirled the mixture around and poured it down the throat of her patient. Ann murmured in response and made a face.

  "Sour," Ann said, smacking her lips.

  "Okay, what happened on Spider Island?" Ryan asked, kneeling so they were face to face.

  "Lieutenant Brandon had his sec men raid our ville," Ann whispered, new strength in her voice. "He was looking for you." She broke into a ragged cough.

  Ryan frowned. Fireblast! He hadn't considered that possibility. After blowing the bridge, the sec men did a recce on both islands and tortured the escaped slaves for any info they had on the companions. The women knew nothing, but that wouldn't have stopped Brandon.

  "Brandon. This was a big man, dark hair, lots of scars," Ryan asked.

  She nodded. "Th-that's him. W-wanted you bad."

  "We aced a lot of his troops," Ryan explained briefly.

  Ann almost smiled. "Good."

  The water in the pot was boiling now, and Jak added a couple of envelopes of brown powder. Soon the tantalizing aroma of beef soup filled the cramped quarters. A cup was brought over, and Mildred spoon-fed the girl tiny sips. The broth seemed to bring her back to life, and soon she was gulping down the brew.

  "Not too much," Mildred warned, taking away the cup. "Your stomach isn't used to anything yet. Give it a while."

  Ann nodded obediently, but constantly gazed at the tin cup with open avarice.

  "How did you get away from Brandon?" Krysty asked.

  Feebly, the girl showed her scarred wrists. "Bit through my ropes, jumped into the ocean and swam away. They fired a few shots, but I kept swimming. Anything was better than being tortured by them. Half the other girls were already aced. Some ocean current caught me, and I was dragged here."

  "Just like it did us," Dean commented.

  A great rustling noise sounded from outside the box, and J.B. went to the window for a look. All of the birds were taking wing, swarming into the sky and flying away. Bad.

  "Be right back," he said, and slipped out the doorway.

  Doc and Jak placed the wooden board back over the entrance, and Ryan gestured for the girl to continue.

  "The ville was mostly dead when I washed ashore. Bodies everywhere. I tried to help and got…taken by some of the men. Thought it would cure them." Ann shifted the frock coat to hide the bruises on her thighs.' "Then I got sick, too, and they tossed me in the hole."

  "Bastards," Mildred growled. "Hope they died hard."

  "What about the machine they found," Ryan said, returning to the original topic. "Did they take it with them?"

  "He, Brandon, suspected you wanted it for something," Ann replied slowly, as if afraid to speak. "So he had the sec men smash it to pieces."

  "Fuck!" Ryan cursed, rocking back on his heels. The gateway was destroyed.

  "We're trapped," Krysty said in a hollow voice.

  "No, we're not," Ryan said, worrying a fist into the palm of his other hand. "Remember that map in the lighthouse."

  "Those weird symbols?" Mildred scoffed. "Could mean anything."

  "Mebbe so. But it's our best chance for leaving," Ryan shot back. "Our destination may have changed, but the plan is the same. We find a ville, buy a ride on a ship and leave. Only now we're going to Forbidden Island."

  "Well, our rad counters will help us avoid the blast craters there," Doc mused aloud, pursing his lips. "But we shall need to locate another ville. There are no vessels for hire here."

  "Not even a canoe," Dean said in a serious tone.

  "I know where there is a ship," Ann said, levering herself upward on an elbow. "And I'll show you, but only if you take me with you. Please…"

  J.B. appeared at the doorway. "Company coming," he reported. "Lots of them."

  "Brandon?"

  "Don't think so."

  "Triple red," the Deathlands warrior barked, sliding the Steyr off his shoulder and working the bolt.

  Going to the window, Ryan watched as whistling objects arced over the wall to land among the dead and bounce along the ground, spewing forth thick streams of black fumes. A bird caught in the gas gave no reaction and continued feasting. Not poison gas, then, which was good. Spreading across the compound, thick tendrils of dark smoke crept along the ground, hiding the dead. Then dim figures on horseback appeared in the smoke, stopping occasionally to stab at the corpses with long spears. Testing to see if any were still alive. Had to be slavers come for fresh muscle.

  "Dig in here?" Dean asked, jacking the slide on his Browning semiautomatic pistol.

  "Fish in a barrel," his father answered curtly. "We'll have to snipe these bastards to pieces. Dean, stay with Mildred and the girl. Everybody else, spread out. Now move!"

  Going to the bed, Jak gestured and a knife was in his hand. Kneeling, he pressed it into the palm of the girl. "Any probs, whisper about blasters," he said fast. "They lean close to hear, stab in throat."

  She silently thanked him with her eyes, and Jak moved off at a run.

  Dashing outside, the companions separated into the thickening smoke, not daring to fire their blasters yet and draw unwanted attention to the baron's home. As soon as the companions were gone, Mildred and Dean manhandled the door into position and dropped down the wooden arms on each side. The slats held the door in place, but Mildred highly doubted its ability to withstand any kind of an attack.

  "Best we got," Mildred said, wiping her hands.

  "Watch the windows," Dean replied grimly.

  Hoofbeats pounded in the smoky compound. So they had horses. Good. Keeping his back toward the wall, Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer and waited until a dimly seen figure came closer. He fired, there was a muffled cry and the rider tumbled to the ground. Small as the sound of the silenced pistol had been, it drew a barrage of return fire, tongues of flame stabbing into the smoke from a dozen flintlocks, the telltale thud-clack sounding before the powder ignited. Lead balls slammed into the steel wall around him, one plowing into the dirt between his boots. Diving out of the line of fire, Ryan rolled to get some distance. Rising, he fired aga
in, another rider dropped and again the flintlocks delivered a brutal retaliation.

  Dark swirling clouds filled the ville, the galloping of horse hooves thudding onto the soil forming a low rumble like an approaching storm. It was difficult to know which direction the riders were coming from, but Ryan realized the smoke worked both ways. The companions couldn't see the invaders very well, and the coldhearts would have no idea how many defenders there were. Might be able to use that in their favor.

  Somewhere close by, a revolver snapped off rounds, followed by the thundering roar of the LeMat. Flintlocks responded, accompanied by several thrown spears. Then Jak's Magnum pistol boomed, and a horse screamed in pain. More flintlocks spoke, lead balls ricocheting off the wall and rebounding back into the compound. Ryan felt the hot passage of a near miss and started zigzagging across the ground.

  Leaping over a corpse, he stopped just in time before tumbling into the firepit full of decomposing bodies. A sputtering smoke bomb lay on top of a dead man, charring the flesh and clothes. Odd place for it to land. Damn thing should have rolled right off. On impulse, Ryan kicked the charge into the firepit. Almost instantly, a spear jabbed from the billowing clouds and he fired from the hip, the cough of the SIG-Sauer heralding the wet smack of lead hitting flesh. The figure staggered and dropped its weapon to grab an arm, but the coldheart didn't cry out in pain. Swiftly, he retreated into the smoke and disappeared. But now Ryan knew why they were so hard to spot. The enemy was wrapped in gray cloth the same color as the smoke. Camou clothing. Clever.

  From the distance came the stutter of a rapidfire, the fiery flower of the discharges brightening the clouds in a brief strobe effect. J.B. was in action. But the sound stopped almost as quickly as it had started, and Ryan feared the worst.

  Moving sideways, the man headed in that direction and after only a few yards discovered that the body of the man he had aced was gone. The cold-hearts took their dead? Suddenly, Ryan wasn't sure they were facing just slavers anymore, but something infinitely worse.

  More gunfire and flintlocks spoke as the one-eyed man reached into a pocket and pulled out a rebuilt gren from the lighthouse. Ryan couldn't use the explosive in the smoky field; that would be a sure way to chill his own people. But he could toss it into the firepit. That would contain the deadly shrapnel and hopefully the noise of the detonation would rattle the unseen enemy. Slim chance, but worth a try. This whole fight could turn against them with lightning speed.