Gaia's Demise Page 10

  Shouting orders, armed sec men piled out of the barracks, and the night came alive with blasterfire as they were cut down in the street by hidden snipers.

  Suddenly, sirens blared and lights clicked on, filling the complex with blinding illumination. But the tactic failed miserably. Instead of startling the slaves and making them run away in fear, it gave them heart. They used the visibility to shoot down additional sec men, men seized their longblasters to kill more of the blue shirts. "Victory or death!" a woman yelled, waving a bloody longblaster. The rally cry was repeated by a hundred people in rags, brandishing weapons of every possible description.

  IN A THUNDEROUS crash, the side of the main warehouse broke apart and an Abrams M-1 tank rolled out of the building, crashing under its massive armored treads several Hummers that had been commandeered by slaves.

  Oddly, nobody fired a weapon at the tank, and the commander began to laugh as the gunner tracked the machine guns of the military juggernaut after the slaves scattering throughout the complex.

  As the Abrams rumbled past the barracks, a glass window shattered and a slave leaped upon the machine, clinging to the thick barrel of the 120 mm cannon like a monkey. More laughter sounded from within the Abrams, and then a series of metallic clanks announced the main gun was being loaded. Light poured from the barrel, and the slave released the handle of the gren in his hand and threw it down the barrel. The men inside cursed in shock. Releasing the cannon, the slave fell to the soil and tried to run, but the military tank loomed above him like a wall of death. He darted to the left, the right, but not fast enough. The treads caught his leg, and he was pulled underneath the massive machine shrieking and wailing until his head was mashed flat.

  Then the gren detonated, flame shooting from the cannon and out every port and hatch. Steam rising from its vents, the Abrams stood motionless in the street, the smell of death pouring from the broken vehicle.

  With the destruction of the Army tank, the fighting became pandemic in the ville. Shots rang out constantly, screams coming from every building. The fighting went hand-to-hand at the armory, as each side straggled to reclaim the precious cache of ammo. Triumphantly, the sec men gained control of the building, ruthlessly shooting the slaves crawling in through the broken windows and shimmying out the fireplace flue.

  Then a horn sounded a single clear note, and the slaves raced away from the structure. Weapons at the ready, the sec men stuffed grens into their pockets and waited for the next assault when the floor below erupted in a strident blast. The entire building lifted into the air, the tunnels below the foundation clearly visible for a split second before the tons of masonry plummeted earthward in a grisly rain.

  That was the turning point of the battle. Now the slaves openly challenged the sec men, blaster for blaster, man for man, and the blues were decimated every time they tried to make a stand. Soon the sec men were ducking for cover, then retreating to strategic locations, and finally running for their lives before the relentless advance of the ragged horde.

  "RETREAT TO THE BUNKER!" cried the sec chief, launching a flare into the nighttime sky. The incandescent charge soared upward and detonated in a pyrotechnic display visible from everywhere in the complex.

  A shot hit him in the chest, the blow to his vest only making him grunt. Then a tracer round took him in the throat, and the man toppled off the roof of the Hummer, launching a second flare with his last ounce of strength. The charge went wild, rocketing down a street, glancing off the side of a building and streaking into the night to explode among the trees. Few saw the heroic act, even fewer the second flare. But the first signal had been spotted, and the wounded blue shirts obeyed the desperate command, fleeing toward the concrete block located in an open field.

  The bunker was a stout concrete building, its original purpose lost forever in time. But the windows were sealed with iron plate, the walls reinforced with multiple layers of bricks, the domed roof smooth concrete over riveted sheets of cold iron.

  "Hurry!" a corporal shouted, standing in the doorway, one hand on the portal, the other gripping the jamb. Sec men stood behind him, firing their blasters in controlled bursts at the bloodthirsty throng racing across the field. Dozens of sec men poured into the building, plunging deeper into the structure to make room for their brethren guards so close on their heels.

  Carrying a flamethrower, a sec chief appeared from within the bunker. "That's everybody. Close the door."

  "We have a man out there!" the door guard dared to respond.

  The sec chief squinted into the chaos. A single sec men was running toward the bunker only a few yards ahead of the slave army. Arms pumping, legs flashing, the blue shirt raced pell-mell across the field, leading the way for the howling killers, a herald announcing the holocaust.

  "Fuck him! This is a direct order. Close the door, Corporal."

  Confused, the sec man jerked his head at the running blue shirt so close to the bunker, and the slaves so close behind. With a grave expression, he began to push the heavy door closed, the opening narrowing by the heartbeat.

  "Wait," the runner wheezed. "Please, wait!"

  The armored door closed with a boom, the heavy locks sliding noisily across the array of iron bands.

  Stumbling to a halt, the sec man stood in the middle of the field staring dumbfounded at the bunker. "Damn you," he panted. "Damn you all to hell."

  A longblaster shot took the man in the shoulder, spinning him, blood spraying from the impact. Now facing the triumphant slaves, the blue shirt made no effort to run or draw the weapon at his hip. There seemed to be no point to the act. Howling in victory, the slaves swarmed over the standing man, and he disappeared within the mob.

  Reaching the bunker, the slaves fired their blasters at the door and walls, the 7.62 mm rounds chipping the bricks but nothing more.

  "Find some explosives!" shouted a big woman, a pistol in one hand and a bloody piece of scalp in the other. "Let's blast our way in!"

  A scrawny man stood before the door as if defying it with his mere presence. "I say we break it down and catch the bastards alive!" he shouted. "Then we crucify the lot of them! Who's with me?"

  The slaves cheered their approval. A bracing girder used for supporting the dish was found, and ten of the largest slaves grabbed hold and charged at the iron door. The end of the steel girder flattened as it hit, and the door shook dangerously on its hinges.

  "Again!" screamed the leader, and the girder slammed against the iron portal, making it rattle loosely.

  "It's coming free!" a woman shouted. "We're almost in!"

  A tiny slot opened in the door and several blasters fired. Two slaves toppled over with ghastly head wounds. But more rushed boldly to take their place, and one man shoved an AK-47 into the port and emptied the clip, twisting the barrel about in a circle, trying to chill everybody on the other side. Screams of pain told of some degree of success.

  The girder crashed against the door once more, and suddenly clear moonlight washed over the battlefield.

  Startled, the slaves paused in the attack, some of them plainly frightened. Above the complex, the ever present storm clouds were thinning away to nothingness and twinkling stars could be seen overhead, the fat moon a silvery orb to rule the sky.

  "Beautiful," a woman cried.

  A man recoiled in fear. "Ain't natural. No clouds in the sky? Ain't natural, I tell ya!"

  The leader of the slaves started to reply when he heard a low-key humming and realized there was a surge of power going through the high-tension lines feeding the dish, the accumulators audibly charging. His heart pounding, the slave had no idea what to do. Was this an attack? Were the blues electrifying the door?

  Just then a man screamed, clawing wildly at his face; Then another did the same, and another. Caterwauling people fell off the roofs of buildings, untriggered rifles exploded, loose ammo crackling like popcorn and Hummers burst into fireballs.

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, the battered door to the bunker was forced open by sec
men who immediately retreated, covering their mouths and noses and trying not to gag. The portal was closed posthaste, the edges sealed with rags and anything that could be shoved into the jamb to keep out the horrible stink.

  The blue shirts knew they would have to wait a few hours for the stench to dissipate. But there was no rush. The rebellion was over. Everything within a mile of the bunker was now stone dead.

  INSIDE THE MAIN LAB of the complex, Silas Jamaisvous stood at a control panel, an empty syringe of adrenaline sticking out of his arm.

  Woozy, he pulled down the switch operating the bus bar disconnecting the main relay assembly from the power grid.

  "It worked," he whispered in delight. "It really worked!"

  "Yes, it did," Sheffield said from the corner of the lab. "And we really need to talk about that."

  Chapter Eight

  Ryan awoke, still hearing the thunder of the waterfall.

  "Son of a mutie bitch," he muttered. "We survived after all."

  Struggling to his hands and knees, the man realized half of his face was cold and the other side painfully hot. He been lying facedown in the mud with the sun baking his blind side.

  Painfully sitting upright, Ryan felt like the loser in an ax fight. He remembered going over the waterfall and not much after that. Sluggishly, the one-eyed man felt for his SIG-Sauer. He was amazed to find it still there. Trembling fingers jacked the slide, and he holstered the useless blaster. It was coated with mud. Firing a round now might make the weapon explode.

  Drawing the curved panga, he stood and surveyed the landscape. They were in a shining sea of smooth water, tiny tufts of brown grass dotting the surface, and farther out was the occasional dead tree draped with moss and green with mold. The smell of salt was strong. The water was about a foot deep, the ground underneath the soft muck of decaying plants. It was a swamp formed from the runoff of the ocean river. To the east rose a high cliff, a waterfall cascading from the top, filling the air with a fine mist and a beautiful rainbow.

  The Deathlands warrior frowned. Cliffs behind, swamp ahead, not much choice of direction to take.

  Wiping the salt mud off his face, Ryan counted off the rest of the companions and was relieved to find everybody present. They were lying limply about, but no limbs jutted at odd angles, and no pools of blood were visible. Krysty lay near him, with one cowboy boot missing, her fur coat looking like it had drowned itself. A few yards away, Mildred was draped over a piece of the raft. The unconscious physician still gripped her med kit.

  The smaller raft was intact. One of the logs was broken in two, but the canvas still retained the supplies within. But the cargo raft was destroyed, boxes and timbers strewed everywhere for hundreds of yards.

  Nobody dead, one raft still whole. With this little damage, Ryan realized it couldn't have been a proper waterfall with a straight drop. It had to have been merely a steep incline, and they were flushed onto this muddy field like so much shit. Vaguely, Ryan had disjointed memories of swimming, fighting to reach the surface, people shouting. After that, it was blank. One raft lost. Could have been worse, a lot worse.

  "Krysty?" he asked, sloshing closer to the woman.

  "I'm alive, lover," she replied, struggling into a crouch. "Just barely, but still pulling air."

  Finding the other boot, Ryan gave it to her, then helped the woman to stand. "It's a miracle we survived," he stated.

  "Thank Gaia." Krysty coughed and tried to wipe the clinging muck off her sodden clothes.

  Resembling a corpse escaping the grave, Mildred arose from the watery mud. "Anybody hurt?" the physician asked wearily, feeling her own arms and chest for broken bones.

  "We're okay," Ryan replied. "Battered, but no serious damage."

  "Good." Mildred hawked and spit to clear her mouth. "Looks like we're in a runoff swamp," she said. "Better than a rad pit, I suppose."

  Quickly, Ryan checked his lapel and saw no readings from the miniature Geiger counter. "Clean," he reported, then actually smiled as he noted the disheveled appearance of his friends, dark mud covering them like camou armor. "Well, sort of anyway," he added.

  Favoring his right leg, Doc struggled to stand, the black-powder charges from the LeMat dribbling out of the holster and down his leg like black blood.

  "How inconvenient," he rumbled in annoyance, then addressed the others. "By any chance, does anybody see my stick?"

  "Over here," Dean cried, and splashed across the water. By a rotting tree, he plunged his hands into the silt and pulled the ebony swordstick free.

  "I saw the light flashing off the silver," he said, returning the weapon.

  "Thank you, lad. Good show." Doc twisted the lion's-head handle and pulled out the sword for inspection. The steel was foggy with condensation, but otherwise undamaged.

  Dean shrugged. "No prob."

  His limp fedora perched on a stick to dry, J.B. was sitting on the undamaged raft, holding his glasses by the stems and rinsing them in the seawater.

  Knife in hand, Jak stood nearby, staring hard at the desolate land stretching before them. It resembled his home of Louisiana.

  "Clean blasters!" the pale teenager barked as an order.

  Sliding the patch to the front of his face, Ryan looked about and saw nothing of possible menace. "Explain," he commanded.

  Jak frowned. "Swamps alive. Lots life, snakes, rats. Not here, but could be."

  Heeding the sage advice, the companions moved to the raft and got busy. Sparingly using the clean water from the canteens, they cleaned their weapons and made sure each was in working order. Then with guards posted, they attempted to clean themselves. Dean found a depression in the land two feet deep, and they washed as thoroughly as possible in the makeshift tub.

  "What's wrong with the soap?" J.B. asked, trying to work up a lather in his hands.

  "This is salt water," Mildred said, pouring another skimmed cup of swamp water over her hair. More silt rinsed out of her beaded plaits. "It takes a special kind of soap to foam in brine."

  "Swell," he grumbled.

  After the ablutions, somewhat cleaner and pounds lighter, the companions sat on the raft eating cold MRE rations. The warm water rose to their knees, and they closely watched the surface for undulating ripples that meant the presence of snakes. Swamps were the worst kind of terrain to cross. Mud weighed you down, great holes could open beneath you at any step, the air was thick and difficult to breathe, plus most of the animals were poisonous.

  Chewing a ration bar, Dean glanced at the waterfall. "Looks like we walk from here."

  "Where is here?" Krysty asked, her hair flexing and waxing around her as if drying itself in the pale gray sunlight.

  "I checked earlier," J.B. replied around a mouthful of peanut butter and graham crackers. He took a pull of water to clear his throat. "We're still in North Carolina. About twenty miles from the Tennessee border."

  "That's good news," Ryan said, wiping the inside of a metallic foil bag with a finger to get the last of the military cheese. The stuff was gray, but he knew that was the normal color of cheese. Carrot juice was normally added to make it more appetizing, but he guessed the MRE packs were designed to be cheap, as well as last forever.

  Placing aside an empty envelope of corned-beef hash, Mildred rinsed her spoon clean and tucked it into a pocket. "Well, if it's any comfort, there's no way the blues will ever find us out here." She gestured at the empty expanse.

  Removing her coat, Krysty hung the garment over a dead tree. It had felt as if she were carrying another person on her shoulders. "Hate to leave the supplies," she said, stretching. "But I suppose there's no way to haul them along."

  "We can make backpacks," Ryan said, standing. Wading around the stationary raft, he peeled away the canvas sheet and took stock of the jumbled boxes. "Bare essentials. Only food and ammo. We each get one gren, J.B. gets the rest of the explosives, Mildred any medical supplies. Leave the rest."

  "Dry socks," Jak added sternly. "Live in swamp, dry socks save feet."
>
  "He's right," Mildred said, respectfully appraising the teenager. "This place is a breeding ground for fungus. We'll change our socks every time we break for food, and I'll spare some sulfur to try and keep out infections."

  "Swamps," Doc muttered, fluffing the muddy frills of his shirt. "Sweet nature's toilet."

  Everybody laughed, but it was Mildred's comment that struck a resonating cord within Ryan, and once again he debated the wisdom of their goal. Should they be heading for the town of Shiloh, or the site of the infamous Civil War battle? The historic Shiloh was only a few miles away from a redoubt. Shiloh ville won the debate because it was closer.

  "Might as well get moving," J.B. said, wiping off his palms with a moist towelette included in the MRE pack. "Miles to go before we sleep and all that, eh, Doc?"

  "Without a doubt, my friend."

  As the companions rose, the raft moved unexpectedly, floating to the surface of the dirty water.

  "Dark night," the man whispered in surprise. "Salt water is more buoyant than fresh."

  "Is this deep enough?" Krysty asked, lifting a boot and inspecting the water-mark level.

  Mildred pushed at the logs with a hand, and they moved. "Seems so, yeah."

  "There's no current," Dean said, crossing his arms. "Are we going to drag it behind?"

  Splashing closer, Ryan was already at the rear of the craft, lifting the mooring lines from the mulch and testing their strength. "Half of us will push," he stated, "the rest can drag."

  ROWS UPON ROWS of cots filled the makeshift hospital of Front Royal, temporarily located inside the long dining hall of Cawdor Castle. The great table had been moved to the end of the hall and converted into a surgical bed, leather straps draped over the bloodstained surface to hold down the sec men who needed limbs removed or other major surgery. The ville's supply of predark ether had been used up the first day, and now the healer poured shine down the throats of his patients until they fell unconscious.

  Thankfully, the screams of agony hadn't been heard in days. The seriously hurt were out of their misery, dead and buried, either from the wounds they received in battle, or from the meatball surgery trying to save them. The rest of the brown shirts and civilians lay on the simple cots, waiting for medical attention to their bullet wounds and stumps. The air reeked of feces, whiskey and blood, and the painful moaning never stopped, day or night.