Zero City Page 12

  "These ruins are in excellent shape," Ryan said. "There has to be a hospital somewhere, or a doctor's office. Might find what we need locally."

  "Worth a look," J.B. agreed. "You never know, eh?"

  "But right now, we recce this dump, and start ferrying over the supplies," Ryan continued, shouldering his longblaster. "We'll eat and sleep in shifts until dawn. Then we do a scout of the neighborhood. After that, we split into teams, J.B. and Doc hunt for supplies. I'll track the thief."

  "Plus, we better get to work on the defenses," Krysty added, shivering slightly from the chill in the basement. "We'll need them if those muties come in a flock."

  "Can't be many more around," Mildred said, dampening a rag with the canteen and wiping down the boy's forehead. "They're too big. They'd eat all of the wolves and lizards and then start on each other. So unless they're smart enough to open cans, logic dictates there are only a couple at most."

  "Sure as hell hope you're right," Ryan growled, glancing at his son, and then upward at the broken skylight four stories away. "Because it took the lot of us to barely chill one of these bastard things, and we have no hope in hell of stopping a swarm."

  THROWING EMBERS high into the sky, a roaring bonfire cast dancing shadows across the bare brick walls and iron gates of the ruins of the predark library. Just outside the circle of light, men patrolled with longblasters cradled in their arms, black scarves wrapped about their faces as protection from the evening chill and to mask their presence from any possible observers.

  Laughing and talking, a group of men sat around the crackling fire, throwing in the occasional book to feed the flames. A massive aluminum pot hung suspended over the blaze, the contents bubbling steadily as the fat, bearded man opened another predark can of beef stew and added it to the mixture. He stirred the food carefully with a bayonet, now and then taking a lick.

  Most of the men were dressed in bulky plain cloth jackets, more patches than original cloth. But each sported blue denim pants with the price tag still attached, the cuffs tucked into brand-new heavy work boots. Each man was armed with blasters in police holsters, a few with M-16 assault rifles or double-barreled shotguns.

  Backpacks and bedrolls were scattered around, along with stacks of canned goods, some with labels, most without. Nearby was an orderly line of U.S. Army MRE packages, and a large stack of ammo boxes next to a huge tarp-covered stack of flat crates. Vehicles stood parked in a ragged line cutting off the street entrance to the library parking lot.

  The cook took a sip of the watery contents in the pot, and nodded. "Supper's on," he announced.

  "About freaking time," Rev growled, taking a seat in a beach chair. He was a tall man with pale skin and jet-black hair cut in a military-style flattop. An old leather bandolier of clips encircled his waist like a belt, and a compact MAC-10 machine pistol was slung over a shoulder.

  Twelve other men gathered around the fire and took seats on office chairs and park benches while the cook quickly served out steaming helpings of the stew onto tin plates. Slices of canned bread were freely distributed, and nobody talked while the food was being dispersed.

  "Not bad," Rev slurped between mouthfuls. "Not bad at all."

  The cook, Jimmy, beamed in pleasure. "Thanks."

  Spoon poised, Rev eyed the man. "I was talking to the grub. What the hell did you do but open some cans? Moron could have done that."

  Others echoed his sentiments as the men used the stale slices of predark bread to mop the plates clean of the thick gravy.

  Red fury burned in the man's face, but Jimmy went back to tending the fire, setting aside more cans to open in preparation to feed for the next shift of men when they came off guard duty. When nobody was looking directly his way, Jimmy flavored the stew with a healthy wad of spit. As his father always said, revenge came when you least expected.

  "Damn, after nothing but coyote and lizard for the past month, even this shit tasted good," Rev announced as he sucked a juicy morsel from his back teeth. The man loudly belched in satisfaction and tossed the plate in the darkness. A squeal came from the crash followed by tiny scurrying noises.

  "Got yourself a lizard there, Rev," said a burly man, wiping his mouth on a sleeve.

  "Who gives a shit?" came the brusque reply.

  An Oriental man in faded Army fatigues grinned widely as he filled a coffee cup with champagne from a dusty bottle and drank it like water. Best damn hooch he ever tasted. Raided lots of ruins, but never heard of Iron Horse before. Now he'd watch for the stuff. Age didn't seem to affect some booze, occasionally made it taste even better. Damnedest thing.

  "Hey, Samson," Wu-Lang asked, refilling the mug. "What did that runaway we captured say the ville was called?"

  "Alphaville," the giant squeaked. Nobody laughed at the ridiculous contrast. Samson possessed the voice of a child, but the body of two men and a mind of solid ice. Not even Rev would challenge the big man directly. "Used to be run by some old baron till a new guy took over last winter."

  His shaved head gleaming in the firelight, another man laughed. "Don't matter. The ville is ours. They just don't know it yet."

  "Yeah," Wu-Lang added, finishing off the champagne. "Can't understand it, though. He hated the place so much he risked traveling through the Deathlands solo. But when we ask for info on the defenses, he clams."

  Baldy snorted in contempt. "Dying to protect a ville you hate. Just so your old baron gets a chance to reclaim it from the new boss. Never heard of such a crazy notion."

  Reaching into a wheelbarrow placed conveniently near the campfire, Jimmy tossed in some more books and stirred the blaze with the poker. "He lasted long enough under the knife before talking."

  "Crazy don't mean weak," Rev stated, reaching into the canvas duffel bag lying at his boots. Finding a carton of cigarettes, he ripped it open, destroying most of the packs, the smokes tumbling to the asphalt. He chose one from the jumble, tucked it between his lips and lit it with a stick from the fire. Rev drew the smoke deep into his lungs with satisfaction. Lighting up a predark cig usually tasted like smoking a turd. These were wonderful.

  "And he knew where the old baron had all this shit hidden away," Wu-Lang continued. "I have never seen such weps before!"

  "And the foods, the clothes!"

  "It's the shits," Rev agreed, smiling as he blew a smoke ring. "The absolute shits."

  A soft whistle started to keen from a copper teakettle on the fire, and the cook deftly removed it using arc-welding gloves. They would be wanting coffee soon, and he needed the fire high to get that huge pot boiling before they whipped him for taking too long. Sure would be great when the folks at the ville were hooked on jolt and he had some slaves of his own to beat.

  "Where the hell are those guys, anyhow?" Wu-Lang asked, picking his teeth clean with a dirty thumbnail. "Isn't it time for shift change?"

  "Yeah, it is," Rev said, frowning.

  "Might have found another supply of booze," a fellow with a big mustache suggested. "And they're testing it for quality."

  Cig dangling, Rev stood and hooked his thumbs into his gun belt. "Kick their ass if they do. This be a military op. We ain't partying yet. And guards stand rotation."

  "If you say so," Jimmy said, tending to his business.

  "Mebbe the wolves got them."

  "Lots of them around here." He laughed. "Or those flying muties the sec man told us about before he chilled."

  Holding aloft his rifle, Samson squealed loudly. "I got the cure for muties right here, boys!"

  A slightly drunken chorus agreed with the giant wholeheartedly.

  "Hate wolves," Wu-Lang muttered, reaching out to take a cig from the loose pile on the ground. "Hate the way they taste, too."

  Rev offered the man a light from a burning stick. "Shuddup. They're our key to the ville." He turned his head to watch the searchlights sweep the sky. "Fighting wolves means some of them got to get hurt. Mebbe hurt bad. When we offer to sell predark drugs in exchange for protection from the wolves,
the local baron will shit himself inviting us inside the wall."

  "What we gonna call the jolt this time?" Harlan asked.

  "Tell them it's painkillers."

  Samson patted a small wooden crate at his side. "Or, ah, antibiotics," he said stumbling over the long word.

  "Either way, one taste and we own them." Wu-Lang smirked.

  "Aye, it's a good plan," Brian agreed, giving a snaggletoothed grin. "Our best yet. Putting it into the water supply thins down the jolt too much. Some of the stronger folks don't get hooked, and we have a fight on our hands."

  "Takes longer to cook, too."

  "Time wasted working when we could be drinking and fucking."

  A skinny fellow with a feverish expression lowered an adult magazine, the pages brittle and yellow with age. "Think of all their women. Clean women! And they got to do whatever we want or no jolt." Harlan rubbed his crotch and resumed looking at the old pictures. "For as long as they live."

  "Or least, still warm," Wu-Lang added.

  "Yeah…"

  Exhaling sharply, Rev cast away his dead cig. "And nothing is gonna stop us. We got it all this time. Food, blasters, wags and fuel." He waved about them. "These ruins are a gold mine. Who knows what we'll find in the next store?"

  Just then, the stars overhead blacked out for a moment, and a sudden exhalation of air moved over the parking lot, bringing a hint of the desert heat.

  "What the fuck was that?" Harlan demanded, dropping his nudie mag and drawing a huge revolver. The old S&W .357 Magnum was spotlessly clean, the blued barrel glinting dimly in the reflected lights of the bonfire.

  "Don't know," Rev said, unlimbering his MAC-10 and snapping the bolt.

  Following his lead, the rest of the crew hauled blasters into view. Even Jimmy whipped out a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun from an archery quiver on his back.

  Rising to his full height, Samson hoisted his Marlin rifle to his huge chest, working the bolt to chamber a round. Nearby, Wu-Lang lifted an M-16 into view from a packing crate. With clumsy hands, he eased off the safety and fumbled with the bolt. He cursed as it sprang back, almost costing him a finger. Shitfire, the police station SWAT armory had yielded a dozen of the autoblasters, but no frigging instruction manuals.

  "Probably just a bird," Jimmy whispered, holding the shotgun as if it were a good-luck talisman. "A vulture mebbe. Or an owl. We heard one before. There are lots of them in these parts."

  "Yeah," Harlan whispered, cocking back the hammer on his blaster. "An owl."

  "Mebbe it's that flying mutie the runaway was talking about," Brian muttered thoughtfully, holding a revolver in each hand.

  "Nonsense," Rev snapped, struggling to keep the terror from his words. Before dying, the sec man had described the terror of the ruins. Covered with his blood, they had laughed at the speech, but now a chill invaded the drug runner's stomach as he scanned the night sky.

  A wet crunch sounded from the dark.

  "That you, Hal?" Wu-Lang asked. "Step on one of those tarantulas again…? Shitfire!" The man retreated from the night, staring at the ground.

  Rolling and bouncing out of the darkness and into the firelight came a bloody human head. The features were slashed, ribbons of flesh hanging off the bloody skull, but what remained of the face was still recognizable as one of their sentries. The neck was severed in the middle, with no ragged marks of biting or chewing. The end of the flesh was smooth as if the man had been beheaded by an ax.

  Then a torso plummeted from the sky to land on the bonfire, extinguishing the flames. Darkness enveloped the parking lot.

  "Bloody hell!" Rev yelled, spraying a wreath of 9 mm tumblers into the sky above.

  Everybody cut loose, rounds ricocheting off the stone walls of the library and shattering glass like crystal thunder.

  Calmly waiting for a target to present itself, Samson stepped out of the reddish glow of the dying embers to let his vision adjust when a wind ruffled the hair at the back of his head. Annoyed, he patted it back down and was surprised when he found his hand sticking to his hair. The giant could feel warmth trickling down his neck, into his new shirt, and knew it was his own blood.

  Baring his teeth in a wordless scream, Samson triggered the Martin, explosions of flame illuminating the parking lot for yards. Briefly, something on top of the stack of ammo crates was caught in the flash, and then was gone. A misshapen figure with terrible demon eyes.

  "It's them! They're here!" Wu-Lang screamed in panic, firing short bursts from the M-16 wildly in every direction. Spent shells arced out in streams of brass and fell musically to the ground.

  Rushing forward, Jimmy slipped on the brass and hit the asphalt hard, losing his blaster. Then with a horrible cry, he was hauled into the darkness and the sound of ripping meat accompanied his piercing screams.

  Rev pumped some bursts that way, then the back of his neck tingled and he wildly spun, firing. Something unseen brushed his face, tearing a bloody score along his cheek, and the drug runner knew he had escaped death by a split second.

  "Light the torches! We got to see to fight!" Wu-Lang cried, dropping a spent clip and slamming in a fresh one. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

  Screaming curses, he furiously worked the bolt and started to fire again.

  Ever so slowly, as if his bones were melting, Samson slumped to the ground, the Marlin clattering to the asphalt from his dead hands. The entire back of the man's clothes were soaked with blood, and he seemed to have only half a head.

  "Regroup at the library!" Rev shouted as he dodged among the piles of supplies to put his back to the stone wall. Footsteps and gunshots headed for the granite building, and as the fight shifted away from him, Rev sprinted for the line of parked wags.

  Scrambling into the nearest truck, Rev was startled to find Harlan already behind the wheel, coaxing the big engine into life. With a sputtering roar, the ramshackle engine finally caught and he rolled ruthlessly over fallen bodies of the crew.

  "Go for the street!" Rev shouted, "and head for the searchlights!"

  "No shit," grunted Harlan, grinding gears and pumping the gas pedal.

  A thump shook the truck, and the hood flipped upward, completely blocking their view. Then a line of holes sprouted in the roof, and the windshield shattered, spraying them both with glass. Cursing, Harlan hit the brakes hard, the disks squealing in protest.

  The truck was still moving as Rev shoved open the side door and hit the ground running. Firing the MAC-10 over his shoulder, the man scampered into the night. Dark shapes were everywhere, and he clumsily dodged one, only to collide with another.

  "Motherfucker!" Rev roared, waving his chattering weapon, hoping for a hit.

  Then a charnel-house breath washed over him worse than anything he had ever smelled, and fiery pain exploded in his groin, moving upward through his belly and deep into his chest. Gutted wide open, Rev tried to scream but only whimpered as red-hot pain filled his world and he fell forever into a bottomless abyss.

  Fighting the shuddering truck to a halt, Harlan dived from the vehicle and scrambled underneath for safety. Hiding seemed the smart move. Screams sounded from every direction, and dim headlights came on as another truck lurched from the line. Harlan calculated a jump to the wag, but froze when he saw the truck careen wildly left and right, then accelerate and smash directly into the low stone wall edging the parking lot. A mangled body crashed through the windshield and a winged figure enshrouded the man just as the headlights winked out.

  An inhuman figure blocked his view of the wreck, and something grabbed hold of his blaster, crushing hand and weapon into a mangled pulp of flesh and steel. Harlan screamed as he was hauled out from under the chassis. Struggling to escape, the man smacked his face against the frame, knocking himself unconscious. His last conscious thoughts were of a fetid sewer breath and a distant pain in his groin moving ever upward.

  The last of the crew now headed for the library, the line of trucks horribly alive with movement. An awful
stench tainted the air, and the screams of the dying filled the night. Suddenly, a lone man holding a pistol and brandishing a machete stumbled into view.

  "Come get some!" Hal cried, fury contorting his features into a feral mask as he expertly twirled the shiny steel blade about in a glittering whirlwind defense.

  "Over here!" Wu-Lang shouted, doing a figure-eight pattern with the M-16 into the sky. The blaster jammed again, and he jerked the bolt to clear the bad round. Frigging predark ammo was for shit!

  "Head for the library!" Brian added, shoving shells into the shotgun. When his revolvers became empty, he had simply grabbed the first blaster he found lying on the ground. There were plenty of shells sewn into the strap, enough for a while anyway. However, the man simply refused to notice how sticky the stock was, his mind overwhelmed with the current fight to bother with such trivia.

  Hal jumped at the sound of their voices as if startled that anybody else was still alive, then he charged toward them firing his pistol to both sides. But he crossed only a few yards when he dropped to his knees, the machete skittering along the asphalt into the bare shrubbery lining the sidewalk.

  Coldly, the others turned their blasters on the latest victim as he was lifted thrashing into the sky. Pistol shots sounded from above, then screams, and then limbs started to fall, closely followed by a bloody torso.

  "Get inside!" Wu-Lang screamed, feeling sick to his stomach.

  Rifle over his shoulder, Baldy was already tugging on the handle with both hands. "The door's stuck! No, I got it!"

  With those words, the door silently swung open and Baldy was dragged inside, the closing door nipping off his fingers as the screaming man desperately clawed at the jamb to stay out of the killing darkness.

  Firing their machine guns wildly, the handful of survivors formed a rough circle, keeping their backs tight against one another. It was a plan forged by instincts created by a million years of plains apes learning how to counter a charge by the savage jungle cats.