Perdition Valley Page 13

  However, it was already too late. The three companions were starting to move more slowly, more clumsily, their breathing labored and shallow. Even Krysty’s enhanced strength had no power over the gas. Somewhere in the roiling banks of black smoke and green chem fumes, four M-16 rapidfires chattered out a long burst. Glass shattered, a dog began to howl, voices cursed, the Uzi spoke from far away, then the Steyr answered.

  Reeling from the airborne drugs, Mildred dropped to her knees as Krysty shuddered all over and toppled to the ground, the brief charge of strength neutralized by the mil gas.

  As the world got hazy, furious anger welled within Doc, only to be replaced by a terrible numbness, and the scholar felt himself unwillingly slide into the artificial sleep of chemical intoxication. His final conscious thoughts were of rage, then fear, and the terrible absolute certainty that after all of these long years, Operation Chronos finally had their hands on him once again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Studying the hooting mob of stickies pounding their suckers against the immaterial boundary of his forcefield, Delphi tried not to sigh. Back to square one again. So be it.

  Pulling a crystal rod from within the voluminous sleeve of his spotless white garment, the cyborg extended it toward the slavering creatures and pressed hard with a thumb. A beam of soft green light extended to wash over the stickies and fully half of them ceased to pound on the shield.

  “Excellent!” Delphi breathed, feeling a rush of excitement. This pack of mutants was responding even better than that group in Tucson. There was hope for the great project yet!

  The angry hoots changed into expressions of curiosity, and Delphi eagerly upped the data flow, sending pictures into their twisted minds. One of the larger males picked up a stick and began to wave it around like a baton. Another did the same, except that he hit a nearby rock with the crude club, the images filling his mind showing the results if that had been the head of a norm.

  Squatting in the hot sand, a female gathered two rocks and hit them together. She hooted at the pretty sparks, then paused and moved to a clump of dry weeds. She banged the rocks once more and the dead plants smoldered, then burst into flames.

  Instantly, all of the stickies rushed to the little fire and hooted in delight. But none of them rushed into the crackling flames. Instead they stayed just outside the area of conflagration, watching the dancing firelight, the images growing stronger and more clear in their minds. Fire…was a friend. Wooden sticks would become spears with fire, and torches could light the night, allowing them to endlessly pursue two-legs. Use the torches to find the norms, then hit with clubs. This would yield much food for the little ones! No more starvation! The family would grow, become big, strong, rulers of the Deathlands!

  “Yes, that’s it, my pretties.” Delphi chortled, increasing the power. The glow of the crystal rod illuminated his twisted face in hellish reflection. “Learn, my children. Learn!”

  One of the stickies crumpled unconscious to the desert sand, and a baby went still, watery fluids dribbling from the misshapen mouth. But the rest seemed to stand taller and more aggressively as they tossed little sticks onto the burning weeds to create their very first campfire.

  RIPPING…TEARING…cold laughter. Sluggishly, Doc came awake to the sound of rending cloth. Blinking hard to clear his vision, the scholar realized that he was lying on a field of grass. The air was cool, and the sun was setting, the cloudy sky dark and rumbling dangerously. How long had he been unconscious?

  Trying to sit up, Doc discovered his wrists were bound with steel handcuffs. What in the world? Cold adrenaline filled Doc as he nervously looked around. The old man was in some sort of a glade, or perhaps a glen, surrounded by trees, with a little waterfall off to the side flowing right out of a large boulder as big as a house. Mildred lay nearby, her face slack in deep sleep. That was when he noticed his gunbelt was gone, along with his swordstick, and even his boots. A quick glance showed that Mildred was the same, stripped of everything that could possibly be used as an offensive wep. But if they were prisoners of Overproject Whisper, then why weren’t they inside a redoubt? Something was very wrong here.

  The sound of ripping material came again. Doc squinted to see into the shadows. In the center of the glen was a small campfire, and in the dancing red light he saw four men standing around a body lying supine on the grass. One of the men made a throwing motion, and something landed with a soft thud nearby. It was a blue cowboy boot with a steel toe.

  Mouthing a curse, Doc felt unbridled outrage flood his tired body, burning away the sleepiness of the mil gas. That was Krysty’s boot! In dread certainty, the Vermont scholar knew what the men were planning for his friend, and he rallied savagely against his steel bonds. He had to help her! But it was hopeless. There was no way he could escape his bonds.

  As another boot landed in the soft grass, Doc heard Mildred mutter a foul expression not typical of the mild-mannered physician. He knew if the two of them didn’t do something quickly…

  The cruel laughter of the four men rose, and Doc tasted sour bile in his throat. Krysty was helpless. She had used the special strength that Gaia gave her in times of true emergency, but afterward the woman was totally drained, completely exhausted. Mix that with the mil sleep gas, and she would probably sleep through her entire ordeal. Until they aced her in the end when their lust was sated.

  Looking frantically around for something to use, some trick to play, Doc saw only a concrete blockhouse across the grassy field, and four sleek motorcycles parked near a barbed-wire gate in the bushes. That was the exit! But it might as well be on the moon for all the good it would do them at the moment. Then he saw a pile of objects and recognized their blasters and other possessions. The stack was several yards away, brightly lit by the campfire. There was no way to sneak over there without being seen. More cloth was ripped and the laughter sounded again, lower, more guttural in tone.

  Hawking softly, Mildred spit and started grunting softly. Doc saw that the woman was twisting a wrist against the handcuffs, red blood starting to show from her efforts. He whistled softly, and she stopped to stare at him quizzically. Doc nodded at her, then tilted his head toward the grass. After a moment Mildred’s face brightened in comprehension. She grimly nodded in agreement, and lay down as if she were still unconscious, tilting her face so that the flicking light from the campfire cast a shadow across her features and hid her eyes.

  Biting a lip, Doc started to think about his wife Emily, his children, and life before Operation Chronos took him away from his friends, and family. Memories started clouding his mind, and he felt madness start to overtake him, but the scholar fought it back with all of his will, and concentrated on how much he loved his wife. His Emily, his sweet dear Emily…. Suddenly a breath caught in his throat, and the time traveler started to weep uncontrollably, huge racking sobs shaking his body.

  “What the fragging hell is that drek?” a voice said from the group, and a young man walked over to him, his shirt partially unbuttoned.

  Maintaining the caterwauling, Doc was privately startled to recognize the man as the drunk from the tavern. So, there had been a spy in town, eh? The filthy traitor. That did explain a lot.

  “Cut the drek, Tanner, or I’ll beat you to death!” Alan Rogan ordered, brandishing a clenched fist.

  Doc felt the full force of his misery flow out in a wail of despair, the tears flowing down his face. “My pills,” he moaned. “My heart…the pills…I need my medication!”

  “Pills? What pills?” Alan snarled, lowering the fist. “What in hell are you blubbering about, ya feeb?”

  “Bad…heart…” Doc wheezed, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Can’t breathe…must have…pills…” He then started to hyperventilate, breathing as fast as he could.

  Alan started to reach for the old man, then drew back his hand in fright. Nuking hell, was the wrinklie sick? He looked okay. But he had also seen many old men just keel over and die, clutching their chests. Did Tanner have a bad heart?
Or was it the Red Death?

  “Okay, stay calm. Where are the fucking pills?” Alan demanded.

  “Cane…in my cane…” Doc panted, trying to drool.

  “In the cane?” Licking dry lips, Alan stared at the twitching wrinklie, then at the ebony walking stick lying on top of the pile of the weps and possessions they had taken from the unconscious outlanders. It was just a black cane the wrinklie used for walking. Certainly no damn wep. Alan could break it between his fingers! On the other hand, he was annoyed at being interrupted before the fun started, and saw no fragging reason to give the old man anything.

  “Stuff it, or get chilled,” Alan warned, drawing a blaster.

  For Doc, this was the deciding moment. The rumors were that these people chilled anybody who looked like Ryan, but captured people that resembled Doc alive. Until they were sure that person wasn’t Doc. If they truly wanted him alive, they wouldn’t hurt him. They’d threaten and bluster, but it would be a bluff. There was no other choice. Doc would have to gamble his life to save his friend. So be it.

  Throwing back his head, Doc howled in misery at the darkening sky, raising both hands to rattle the cuffs. Then he began to cough, loud and hard.

  Make it real, Doc commanded himself. You only have one chance at this.

  “Cut that drek out!” snapped an inhuman voice from the three partially dressed men kneeling by the woman on the ground. Krysty was nearly naked from the waist up, her hair unmoving around her slack face.

  “And right fragging now!” John added grimly, undoing his gunbelt.

  Tightening his grip on the blaster, Alan debated the matter. He couldn’t beat the old man unconscious or Delphi would have their beating hearts on a plate. And it sure didn’t seem like he could frighten the wrinklie into submission. A gag would stop the screaming, but if the man really did need his pills for some sickness, then he might climb onboard the last train west. Delphi would then put the Rogans on right after him.

  “Shitfire!” Alan growled, holstering the piece. “Just wait a tick, I’ll get your damn pills!”

  Giving no reply, Doc continued to heave with a racking cough.

  Furiously, Alan walked over to the pile and lifted the stick. It was too light to make a good club, and the silver head was too small to do any real damage to a person, much less to a Rogan! Taking it by the end, Alan swung the stick a few times, getting a feeling for its weight and offensive capabilities. Which were zero. It was just a fucking cane the wrinklie used to walk. But he didn’t see any pills attached. Mebbe inside?

  “Here!” Alan snapped, tossing the stick to the crying man. “Open it, and shut the fuck up, or in spite of what Delphi says, I’ll kick in your teeth!”

  “My cane,” Doc panted, cradling the stick. Then he smiled at the disgusted coldheart. “Thank you. But if I do say so, sir, I believe that these handcuffs are far more intelligent than yourself.”

  Startled by the abrupt transformation in speech, Alan could only gasp as the wrinklie twisted the silver lion head of the stick, pulled out a steel sword and buried it in his throat.

  Blind from the pain, Alan clutched at his neck, cutting his fingers on the razor-sharp length of Spanish steel. Rising smoothly, Doc shoved the sword in deeper until the tip came out the other side, red blood gushing from the front and back of the dying coldheart.

  Gurgling and choking, Alan fought for air as he started drowning in his own blood. Clawing for his blaster, Alan found it was gone, and on impulse jerked backward to free himself. Spraying blood with every beat of his weakening heart, Alan opened his mouth to call for help when Mildred rose and slammed the butt of the blaster directly onto the rear lambdoid fissure of his skull with surgical precision. There was a soft crunch of bones, and Alan shook violently all over as if struck by lightning. Exhaling his last long breath, he fell to the ground, dead before he landed on the soft green grass.

  Frantically, Doc started searching the clothing of the corpse for a key, while Mildred braced the bulky revolver in both of her sticky hands. Her fingers were covered with her own blood, making the grip slippery, so she spit on the blaster and managed to thumb back the hammer. Damnedest thing, though, the gun felt satiny-smooth, as if it was brand-spanking new and right out of the manufacturer’s box.

  “Well?” Mildred whispered impatiently.

  “I found some brass,” Doc confirmed, displaying a fistful of speed loaders. “But he doesn’t have the key.”

  “Damn! Well, then, it’s been nice knowing ya, Theophilus.”

  “You, too, Millie.”

  As the laughing men began to drag off Krysty’s pants, Mildred leveled the weapon, testing its weight. Gauging the gentle breeze on her cheek, she noted the placement of the campfire, took the rising air thermals into account, made one last adjustment for height and fired a fast three times.

  A hundred feet away, all three of the men cried out. Clutching different parts of their bodies, the coldhearts fell over to reveal Krysty. Her pants were undone, but still on her hips.

  Moving fast, Doc lunged for the pile of their possessions as Mildred pumped the last three rounds into the farthest motorcycle. The range was impossible for a short-barrel handgun, but the gods who had stood by her side in the Olympics so very long ago were again with her this night. The wide bandolier of fat 40 mm shells for a combo rapidfire jumped, then exploded, flame and thunder filling the glen in growing fury as each detonating gren set off the next in line until it seemed like doomsday had arrived all over again.

  Crouching low, Mildred dumped out the spent shells and tried to use the speed loader, but couldn’t manage it in the dark with the cuffs on her wrists. Then from the very heart of the staggering fireball the battered bike unexpectedly erupted in a searing blue electrical explosion, fat sparks spraying out in every direction.

  “Nuking hell, the healer’s got a blaster!” a huge barrel-chested man screamed, getting back to his feet, a hand clutching his stomach. “Somebody ace that crazy bitch!”

  Pocketing the useless brass, Mildred shoved the empty blaster into her belt and desperately raced for the pile of their belongings. In the dancing firelight, she scowled at the lack of blood on the outlander’s clothing. Goddammit, she had forgotten about their body armor!

  Already pawing through the pile, Doc grabbed his revolvers and fired from a kneeling position, the two big-bore blasters blowing hellfire in a deadly cacophony. Both were fully loaded, since Doc had never gotten off a single shot before they were captured back in Broke Neck, and now he needed every damn one of the rounds. The LeMat would be impossible to reload wearing handcuffs, and there was no sight of the pouch full of spare brass for the deadly Ruger.

  Praying that his gambit would work again, Doc started boldly toward the outlanders. They didn’t seem to want to harm him in any way. Well, this was the time to test the theory to its fullest. It was chilling time!

  Snarling, Doc charged, acrid smoke exploding from the black-powder LeMat, while the Ruger boomed stilettos of flame.

  Bypassing her med kit, Mildred grabbed an MP-5, worked the bolt and sprayed the three Rogans across the legs. Only one dropped, but from the cursing, her rounds had obviously hit flesh this time.

  Pausing to grab the three gunbelts, Mildred searched for the grens, but couldn’t find any. Burping the rapidfire, Mildred joined Doc in charging for the three remaining bikes. The physician tossed the old man his gunbelt and maintained cover while Doc hastily reloaded the Ruger. Loose brass tumbled through his fingers, but he got the blaster packed and closed the cylinder with a hard click.

  “Ready!” Doc said, firing both blasters, desperately keeping count and trying to figure out their next move.

  Meanwhile, Mildred buckled on her own gunbelt and clumsily slapped a fresh clip into the exhausted rapidfire.

  “Alan?” a voice called from the shadows. “Alan?”

  “I think he’s chilled!” somebody answered in a twisted mockery of a human voice.

  “Fragging bitch! I want her alive, ya
hear!” the first voice commanded. “At least long enough for me to ace her. But don’t hurt Tanner!”

  Firing at the shouts, Doc felt his blood run cold at that announcement. Tanner. They knew his name. If he remembered correctly, Mildred and Krysty had only called him by the nickname of Doc while they were in the net, so how did these coldhearts know his name? Doc grimaced. Unless they were agents for Operation Chronos!

  “Any bright ideas?” Mildred asked, burping the MP-5 in short, controlled bursts. The coldhearts had quickly spread out and were lying on the ground, making it much harder to target them without exposing herself. They were also starting to shoot back with their handblasters, but only at Mildred. Wisely, she moved closer to Doc, and the incoming barrage of lead stopped instantly.

  In the calm air of the glen, the smoke from the LeMat was making it difficult to see things, the cover both a blessing and a curse to the two companions. Any second now, the coldhearts would figure out that Krysty was the key and turn their blasters on her. Then it would be all over. Seconds counted. But what to do?

  “How about using those bikes to charge the Visigoths?” Doc asked, breaking the Ruger to dump spent brass and hastily reload. More brass was lost, and he only managed to get in five rounds before running out. “The best defense is a good offense, Ryan always likes to say.”

  “Yeah, him and Sun Tzu,” Mildred growled, working the bolt to clear a jam in the ejector port. Glancing at a motorcycle, she saw a blinking red light on the dashboard. That might only be a car alarm, but somehow she got the feeling these coldhearts wouldn’t depend on a tooting horn to protect their possessions. There would be anti-pers boobies, or worse, without a doubt.

  “I think we’re on foot,” Mildred retorted.

  Suddenly the three coldhearts broke cover and dashed across the glen, but in different directions. Two were heading for the blockhouse, while the really big man went for the unconscious Krysty.