Shadow Fortress Page 17

  Holding his torch away from the flammable clothing, Dean grabbed some fresh socks off a rack and stuffed them into his hip pockets. Nearby, Doc was doing the same in the men’s section with underwear.

  “Camping gear!” Jak reported, hobbling in that direction.

  Converging on the area, the companions ransacked the shelves finding mess kits, rain ponchos and new backpacks. It was merely civilian equipment, not sturdy Army haversacks for soldiers on field maneuvers, but the canvas was camou-colored and better than nothing.

  Krysty took an extra pack and loaded it with plastic packs of beef jerky and instant soup. Ryan located a display of field lanterns, and carefully drained a hundred partially dried-out bottles of oil to fill three reservoirs. Then he worked the attached pump to build the pressure inside the reservoirs and lit a steel gauze wick. It glowed like a red ember, but as he turned up the pressure flow, the field lantern gave off a wealth of brilliant white light. Quickly, the other two were ignited and the smoking torches stomped out underfoot on the terrazzo floor.

  Rifling through a box of magnesium flares for making campfires, J.B. froze, a hand easing toward the Uzi. For just a moment, he could have sworn something moved away from the bright lantern light. But as minutes passed and nothing happened, he began to relax. It had to have just been the shadows flickering as the lanterns changed position. Yeah, made sense. But J.B. moved the selector switch on the rapidfire to full-auto, just in case. There was something disturbing about this store, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

  Smashing open a locked case, Jak removed a dozen knives from the wide assortment. Using his teeth, the teenager ripped off the plastic-and-cardboard backing from the first blade, then used the shiny weapon to slice open the rest of the packs. Expertly, Jak tested each blade with an artful flip, tucking only the best of the leaf-shaped throwing knives into his clothing. Then he shifted his leather jacket a few times to get adjusted to being properly armed again. He had felt naked without steel up his sleeve.

  Taking a pair of shoes, Doc replaced his old worn pair and stood flexing his feet in sublime pleasure.

  “Any combat boots?” Dean asked hopefully.

  “No, but lots of sneakers.”

  Disappointed, the boy walked away.

  Closing the gun-rack case, Ryan turned and walked away in disgust. Some feeb bastard had put an open can of soda in the case, and the moisture of the soft drink had ruined every blaster in the case over the long decades. Underneath the case were multiple shelves filled with stacks of ammo, but most of the rounds were half-load wadcutters that would only foul a gun barrel if used too much, and anything live was the wrong caliber, .22 short and long, .32, .360, .45APC, .475 Nitro, 8- and 10-gauge shotgun shells, and a special order for 10 mm AP rounds—nothing they could use. There were several spots where other boxes of .38, .357 and 9 mm bullets had been neatly stacked, but those were gone. Typical. The predark world had to have been getting pretty rough and more than once he found a gun store with most of its weapons and ammo gone, sold off in a panic of a war that lasted only three minutes.

  Regrouping, the companions exchanged some items, then moved toward the rear of the store. As they went past the housewares section, Krysty paused to snare a nonstick frying pan and stuff it into her new backpack. But Mildred stopped to examine sports bras and took two, stepping around a display of sexy lingerie to come out again adjusting something under her shirt.

  Ignoring the toy section, they swept through the pharmacy. Mildred emptied shelves of aspirins, rubbing alcohol, bandages, antiseptic mouthwash and iodine, filling her med kit. The men took disposable plastic razors, the women passed by the perfumed soap to take only unscented bars and everybody grabbed a replacement toothbrush. Dentistry these days was a pair of pliers and a shot of shine, an event to be avoided at any cost.

  Passing by the liquor store, the companions moved slowly up the powerless escalator, knowing the lanterns were revealing their advance to any onlookers. Ryan darted out first and took cover behind a rack of music boxes. He whistled when it was clear, and the others eagerly spread out, wondering what treasures they would find on this level. It was incredible that the city hadn’t been looted to the walls by the pirates, in spite of the mutie gorillas.

  This level of the department store was packed with useless items: more clothes, purses, jewelry, cosmetics, wicker baskets, towels and linens, beds and easy chairs. The companions prowled farther into the dark recess of the building, hoping for better.

  Bypassing a hair salon, J.B. slipped inside a photo shop and returned with a half-filled plastic bottle, grinning as he tucked it away into the munition bags. Then pausing at a display of cigars, he lifted one from a humidor, and inside the plastic wrapping the leaves crumbled into dust. Sighing in resignation, J.B. wiped off his hands and moved on.

  “Eureka!” Doc called out, removing a velvet rope from a brass stand. “We have located the dreams of To Chi!”

  Situated prominently on a carpeted dais were half a dozen brand-new Harley-Davidson motorcycles on display. Huge placards from the manufacturer advertised the new model, with improved gas mileage, piston jets for a cooler engine and the old-fashioned chain linkage replaced with a state-of-the-art geared transmission.

  “Just like those BMW bikes that Silas used,” J.B. grunted.

  “Think mebbe they’ll run?” Dean asked, running palms over the chrome handlebars and leather seat.

  “Tires are flat, batteries dead,” Ryan said, working out the drain plug and feeling inside. The motor was slick with the residue of oil, only a few drops falling to the floor.

  “Also needs lube,” he said, wiping his hand clean. “But I don’t see why these shouldn’t run with some work. They burn alcohol, and there’s liquor on the first floor.”

  “Saw lots vodka,” Jak stated.

  “Save us a week of walking,” Krysty noted.

  “That’s a live round,” Ryan agreed. “Doc, go with him and grab some wicker baskets to carry the stuff.”

  “Certainly, my dear Ryan,” Doc rumbled, and, taking a lantern, led the way to the escalator with the teenager limping behind. The halo of their lantern receded into the distance and was gone.

  “Probably need some ether to prime the carbs on these Twin-Cam 88s,” Ryan continued, checking over the shiny chrome-plated engines. The big V-shaped motors were tough brutes. “Dean could check the electronics department for cleaners for computer equipment.”

  “I’ll grab some oil from automotive, too,” Dean said, and, taking the second lamp, he grabbed a wicker basket and disappeared into the darkness.

  “I’ll lend a hand,” J.B. stated, adjusting his glasses and walking outside the circle of light of the last lantern.

  “Anything else needed?” Krysty asked, squatting alongside the man.

  “Not really. Everything else we can cobble together here,” Ryan told her, starting to disassemble the machine.

  “But check around for a repair kit. That’ll have a hand pump to inflate the tires. If not, there’ll probably be something we can use in the automotive section.”

  “On it.” While Krysty got busy searching, Mildred stayed on guard. The redhead found the pump under the hinged seat and filled the first of the studded tires, when Doc and Jak returned with baskets full of vodka.

  Soon, the second floor was filled with the sounds of mechanical repairs, mild cursing and then the sputtering cough of an engine struggling to life before settling to a smooth purr.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A few hours later, Dean cocked open the exit doors on the ground floor and the companions rode their bikes out onto the street one at a time.

  Arching about, Ryan throttled down the 1450cc Twin-V engine and waited until Dean climbed on behind him, his shoulder bag clattering from the dozen Molotov cocktails. Most of the motorcycles were equipped with riding pegs for the drivers to rest their boots on for comfort, but a couple of the Harleys had floorboards to accommodate passengers. Those were the
bikes that the companions doubled on. Ryan and Dean, Jak and Doc. Everybody else was solo, and loaded down with supplies and bedrolls.

  The sky was turning gray, the shadows of downtown stretching inky fingers across the preserved city. A swarm of squeaking bats poured from a parking garage, and rats scurried from the sewer gratings as the nocturnal creatures left their nests to hunt for food in the starry night.

  “Getting too dark to recce,” Ryan said, gunning the engine. “We better find someplace to hole for the night. Hit the scraper in the morning.”

  “Not want fight spider at night,” Jak agreed.

  “We could camp in the store,” Dean suggested, tapping his father on the shoulder. “Lots of big beds.”

  “And no security,” Mildred stated, twisting the throttle, careful not to redline it. They were still breaking in the motorcycles and knew better than to push them too hard too fast, or they’d blow a ring. Machines were a lot like horses—a person had to stay in absolute control, but also give them lots of attention.

  “If those hunting gorillas attacked,” she went on, “there’d only be some window glass between us and them.”

  “Agreed,” Krysty added, flicking on the headlight and checking the few gauges that worked. “Should we head for a jail or a bank?”

  “Bank,” Ryan decided. “Muties are strong, but they can’t bust through six inches of Plexiglas.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Doc rumbled.

  “Damn,” Krysty said, staring at the rearview mirror. “Nobody turn around, but check behind us.”

  Trying to act casual, Ryan shifted his head to look into the mirror mounted on a chrome rod attached to the handlebars. At first he saw nothing unusual, but then a subtle movement on the third floor of the department store riveted his attention.

  Some sort of a machine was slowly easing out of an open window. The device resembled a mechanical spider, even though it only had four impossibly thin metal legs. The jointed limbs attached to a tiny oval no bigger than a human head, with a video camera lens sticking out of the front, and some kind of a weapon swiveling about on a belly mount.

  “Droid,” Dean said softly, sliding the Weatherby from the gun sleeve strapped to the frame.

  Surreptitiously as possible, the others started doing the same, but as small as the motions were the sec droid leaped off the side of the building. In a blur, Ryan drew and fired three times, the 9 mm slugs tracking the descent of the machine until it crashed in a riot of crunching metal and shattering glass on top of an ancient car at the curb.

  But it straightened immediately and started toward the companions, the device hanging from its belly strobing with a hellish green light. A wave of heat swept over Ryan, and a sharp hiss to the right made him turn and stare at the molten crater in the granite cornerstone of the apartment building only yards away. A laser!

  “Take cover!” he shouted, slipping off the Harley to hit the pavement behind a compact car.

  Swinging up the LeMat, Doc triggered a round, and the machine recoiled from the impact of the .44 mini-ball, its legs stumbling for a few seconds until it righted itself. But now there was a dent in its armor.

  Mildred stepped into view from around a minivan and fired the Thompson at the droid, the slugs making its legs buckle and pounding more dents in its armored skin. The Walker simply stood there and accepted the punishment, then the laser glowed as it charged. Mildred dived for cover and the energy weapons strobed rapidly, the condensed light stabbing a line of holes through the predark vehicle, nearly cutting it in two.

  From the pavement, Krysty fired off the last two rounds in the Webley, as Ryan and J.B. both tossed grens. But as the spheres bounced along the street toward it, the droid scurried over a limousine. As the charge ripped loose, the resulting double blast gouged a jagged hole in the asphalt and sent out a corona of gravel as shrapnel. The stones hit cars, windows and signs everywhere, instantly turning the area into ruins.

  Then a thunderous crack sounded and the Walker was slammed against the glass doors on the department store in a shattering explosion.

  Working the bolt on the Weatherby, Dean darted to a closer car and tried another shot. But deflected by the thick glass, the .460 round missed the droid standing only a foot away. Stepping behind an undamaged pane of glass, the machine stayed motionless for a few moments, before crashing through the glass, its pulsating laser sweeping the line of parked cars.

  Ryan hit the ground and rolled for safety, coming up behind a luxury car. If these had been working vehicles, that light show would have ignited the fuel in most of the wags, the resulting hellstorm of fire and shrapnel chilling the companions on the spot. But the dead wrecks gave no reaction as sizzling holes went through their engine blocks and fuel tanks.

  Taking a step backward, the droid paused as if puzzled by the lack of reactions from the vehicles. Ryan knew there wasn’t enough space in its body for a powerful computer and the power plant to run the laser. Its builders had made a decision, and now the companions were going to prove it had been the wrong choice.

  Flicking his lighter, J.B. lobbed a Molotov at the droid. The bottle hit directly in front, the mixture whoofing into a huge fireball. Unconcerned, the Walker strode through the flames, as the glow around its laser slowly increased until the weapon fired again, the scintillating beam riddling the cars to no effect.

  “Ten-sec recharge!” Krysty shouted, dropping the exhausted Webley and shooting her S&W .38 at the video lens on top.

  “Wait for it!” Ryan ordered, hunching low, switching the SIG-Sauer to his left hand and sliding the Steyr SSG-70 off his shoulder.

  The laser flashed, and the store windows behind the companions violently shattered from heat expansion, thousands of shards of glass raining on them. Writhing in agony, Krysty screamed, clutching her glass-covered hair.

  “Now!” Ryan shouted with blood trickling down his cheek. He stood, firing both blasters.

  Rising into full view, the companions opened fire on the Walker with everything they had, the barrage of lead making a leg buckle, and then the video lens exploded into sparkling trash.

  Blind, the machine began walking around in a small circle, firing the laser every ten seconds randomly.

  “Some sort of autoprotect program,” Mildred muttered, working the bolt to clear another jam in the breech of the heavy Thompson.

  At her words, the Walker rushed at the wag, climbing over the vehicle, its legs stabbing through the thin decorative metal. Poised on top like a cougar on a rock, the sec droid remained motionless, its lasers glowing into full power, and then nothing. It simply stood there, waiting for another sound, the scrape of cloth on stone, a cough, anything to pinpoint its human prey.

  With her back pressed to the granite wall, Mildred sat on the sidewalk, the Thompson held in both hands, the bent brass shell still sticking out of the ejector port. The laser was pointing right at the physician and her ZKR was tucked into its holster. Maybe it was only the coming darkness of night, but the glow emanating from the laser seemed to be increasing as if it were going to fire. With no choice, the woman licked suddenly dry lips, and began to sneak a hand toward the arming bolt.

  Towering above her, the Walker shifted its stance a little bit from the evening breeze.

  Covered with glass, Krysty froze in place, afraid to make any move or the falling pieces would announce her position. Moving extremely slow, Dean was trying to lower the Weatherby and draw his Browning semiauto blaster. Caught in the middle of slapping a fresh clip into the Uzi, J.B. started to swing the weapon toward the machine, aiming the lone round in the barrel start for the muzzle of the laser.

  Silhouetted by the headlights of the purring motorcycles, Ryan tossed away his blaster and charged. At the sound of his boots, the Walker spun, then the weapon landed with a loud clatter on the hood of a police car. The machine paused for only a moment at the trick, then swiveled right back and fired the laser at the sidewalk. But that brief lapse was all Mildred had needed. She was alread
y gone, and the beam merely vaporized a deep hole in the concrete.

  Ryan leaped on the hood of the car, then on the roof. Grabbing the laser in a hand, he crushed the lens, then grabbed the sparking remains of the video camera and pulled with all of his strength. Both of the items broke loose from their weakened housings, and there was a brilliant crackle of blue light, writhing tendrils of electricity crawling over the Deathlands warrior.

  The companions rushed closer as the Walker limply slid off the roof onto the street and Ryan collapsed onto the roof.

  “You okay, lover?” Krysty asked, brushing the black hair off his still face. Faint wisps of smoke were rising from his clothes, and there was the terrible smell of burned flesh.

  “Mildred, get over here!” J.B. shouted as he felt for a pulse in the wrist. Nothing. Quickly, the Armorer tried the main carotid artery in the throat. There was no detectable beat.

  “Is…is he…?” Dean started, unable to finish the sentence.

  Even as Mildred sprinted toward them, a heavy silence descended upon the darkening street. Krysty bent over to cup the still man’s face, and J.B. closed his eyes. As much as he wanted to speak to the others, he said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  “No,” Jak whispered, dropping the stick and walking closer.

  “Yes, goddamn it, he’s dead!” Mildred cursed, shoving the man out of her way.

  But as the woman came around the vehicle, the damaged Walker rose into view on its telescoping legs. Her hands full of the medical bag, the physician fumbled to draw her blaster, when Doc strode toward the machine. A finger holding down the trigger of the LeMat, he fanned the hammer like a Western gunfighter. Six shots struck the Walker with trip-hammer blows, slamming aside the buckled armor to expose the delicate circuit boards inside.

  Attacking from the side, Dean jammed the Weatherby into the guts of the droid and fired, the whole interior momentarily awash in flame. The .460 Nitro rounds blew out the other side of the hull and the Walker crashed to the street. Working the lever to open the breech, Dean thumbed in another round and blew apart the largest piece of intact circuitry. Instantly, the droid burst into flames, black smoke pouring from every vent.