Shadow Fortress Page 18

  Only seconds had passed in the blitzkrieg against the Walker, but Mildred was already working on Ryan, her hands pressed to his chest and pushing hard three times, followed by a pause, then three more hard pushes.

  “Keep giving him air!” she ordered.

  Krysty didn’t reply, but pressed her mouth against Ryan’s and continued blowing into his lungs. The Deathlands warrior’s chest rose and fell, but there still was no pulse.

  “Strive to live,” the redhead whispered between breaths. “Please, lover, live.”

  Straddling the man, Mildred began pounding on Ryan’s chest with both fists clasped together. The thumps sounded hollow and empty.

  “Follow my mark!” the physician commanded. “One, two, three, mark!” She punched as Krysty exhaled.

  “Again!” Mildred commanded. “Again! Again!”

  A minute passed, then another with only the sounds of the fists hitting flesh disturbing the silence of the dark street. The crackling light from the burning Walker cast bizarre shadows on the walls of the pre-dark buildings.

  “Give it up, Millie,” J.B. said softly. “He’s gone.”

  “Fuck that!” she raged, and slammed the man in the chest even harder. “Live, you son of a bitch! I’ve lost enough patients in this godforsaken hell. You’re not gonna be one of them! Come on, you one-eyed bastard! Live, goddamn it! Live!”

  Suddenly, a tremor shook Ryan’s body and his eye fluttered open. He drew in a ragged breath. Krysty pulled back, as the man began to cough, then weakly turned on his side to lose his breakfast over the bumper.

  “Motherfucker…” Ryan panted in a whisper, gasping for breath. “What…hit me?”

  “Got electrocuted,” Mildred said, grabbing his wrist to check the pulse. The beat was irregular, but getting stronger. “It, ah, knocked you out for a while.”

  Accepting a canteen from Dean, Ryan washed out his mouth and spit, then drained the container to fall onto his back exhausted from the effort.

  Krysty took his hands and held them to her breast. “Glad to have you back, lover,” she whispered.

  “Thanks. Hurt worse than losing the eye,” Ryan croaked, then impossibly slid off the minivan and stood on wobbly legs, one hand palming the damaged hood for support.

  Astonished, Mildred couldn’t believe the sight. Anybody else would need bed rest for a few days.

  “I don’t doubt it hurt like blazes,” the physician said, massaging her hand. Punching the man in the chest was like punching a bag of potatoes. Solid muscle. “Back in my day, we used to kill criminals by electrocution until the folks realized just how horrible a death it was.”

  “Feeling okay?” Dean asked, handing his father the dropped blaster.

  “Sure.” It took him a few tries, but Ryan got the SIG-Sauer in its holster. “Kind of weak,” the man admitted, wincing as if the sound of his own voice was causing him pain.

  “That’ll pass soon enough,” Mildred said, rummaging in her med kit. “Here, take these aspirin and suck on this piece of C-4.”

  Not quite sure he heard that correctly, Ryan stared at the items lying in his palm. “You want me to do what?” he demanded uncertainly.

  “Consume plastic explosives, madam?” Doc rumbled askance. “What voodoo is this?”

  “Stuff it, you old coot.” Mildred scowled and turned to Ryan.

  “C-4 is mostly nitroglycerine. That’s good for the heart and yours just had a hell of a strain.”

  Hesitating for a moment, Ryan dry swallowed the pills and tucked the whitish-gray lump of plastique in his cheek. Immediately, he made a face at the horrible taste, but a few moments later there was a rush of color to his cheeks and the man stood straighter with renewed strength.

  “Nuke me,” Ryan said, giving a rare smile. “I feel better.”

  “Using C-4 for a bad ticker,” J.B. said, kissing Mildred on the cheek. “That’s a new one on me.”

  “Only for an emergency,” she answered. “It can kill as easy as cure.”

  Unexpectedly, Ryan pulled his blaster and jacked the slide. “Where’s the Walker?” he demanded, looking around in the stygian blackness. The headlights of the bikes threw great swatches of light across the parked cars, the beams crisscrossing one another.

  “Dean and I terminated its prime functions with extreme prejudice,” Doc answered, busy reloading the blaster. Then he raised his head to grin. “And we did so with great pleasure, my dear Ryan.”

  “It’s chilled, Dad,” Dean agreed grimly, his long-blaster resting on a shoulder.

  Stepping from the darkness into the beams of the headlights on the humming motorcycles, Jak nudged the physician. “He aced,” the teenager stated. “You fix. How do?”

  “The technique is called CPR,” Mildred said, struggling to finally clear the jam in the Thompson. The bent brass sprang clear and flew away to land on a car with a metallic ring.

  “And he was only technically deceased, not quite all the way there,” she continued, easing the pressure off the bolt. “There were no wounds, or physical trauma, just had his heart stopped. Sometimes a doctor can fix that, if we get there soon enough.”

  “Teach me,” Jak asked.

  “Yeah, happy to.” Mildred smiled. “Might need it myself someday.”

  Krysty touched the physician on the shoulder, her hair cascading in crimson waves. “That’s two I owe you.”

  “You’re my family now,” the physician started, then turned away, unable to finish the thought.

  Walking stiffly to the still running bike, Ryan climbed on and revved the 1450cc engine a few times to clear the carb. As expected, dark exhaust blew out of the mufflers, slowly clearing away to white fumes.

  “Let’s find that bank,” Ryan said, a flutter in his voice. The man hawked and spit. “I’m on—”

  “I’m on point,” Krysty stated as a fact, pulling her bike alongside. “Stay in the middle of the street. Dim the headlights to low. Dean, with your father. J.B., cover the flanks. Mildred, the rear. That Tommy working again?”

  “Last clip,” she answered, rigging the sling so the rapidfire hung across her chest. “But the breech is clear.”

  “Good.”

  “And I, dear lady,” Doc espoused dramatically, “shall watch the windows above. Where once it rained a foe, again that can occur.”

  Krysty started rolling forward. “Be sure to use that fast-firing trick again,” she said.

  “That is indeed my full intention,” Doc replied, tucking the mammoth blaster behind his belt buckle for a faster draw while astride the motorcycle.

  In tight formation, the companions pulled away from the littered street, watching Ryan as closely as they did the surrounding darkness. The man was hunched over the handlebars, but operated the bike without any problem. Dwindling in their wake, the burning wreckage of the Walker flared brightly as something flammable ignited, then died away completely.

  Heading for the downtown area, they found several banks and chose the financial institution set between two buildings whose roofs were lower than the bank’s. This gave some degree of safety from above, and allowed them an escape route by jumping from the bank’s roof to the lower structures. Not perfect, but it was acceptable.

  Easily opening the locks, J.B. closed and locked the doors behind them, then drew the shades and lowered the venetian blinds to hide their presence. A brief recce showed the bank was empty of any hidden machines, the windows standard bulletproof Plexiglas.

  The companions drove the bikes up the stairs and made camp on the second floor. Two of the pressurized lanterns were turned off to save fuel, the last lowered to a soft glow, barely enough to illuminate the office. Bookcases were moved in front of the windows, and the desk shoved against the door. Nothing could gain entrance without alerting them.

  Taking a seat in the corner, Jak stood guard with the Thompson, while Doc formed a simple Bunsen burner from a bottle of vodka, the blue flame giving off little light or smoke to betray their position. It was Ryan’s turn to cook
a meal, but Dean assumed the duty over his father’s objections, and started making coffee and stew, the contents of the MRE packs augmented with some beef jerky from the store.

  While the food cooked, the companions took turns washing in the bathroom, the water tank on the roof giving only a tiny trickle of warm water before running dry. But it filled the sink and that was enough. Then they tended to their assorted cuts and bruises and cleaned their weapons—but with one of them always standing guard holding a loaded blaster.

  The food was passable, and during the coffee wild animal screams sounded from the streets below. Briefly, something heavy strode across the roof, then was gone into the night.

  “Good meal,” Ryan said, placing aside his tin plate when finished. “I’ll do double meals tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough,” Krysty said, stacking the dirty metal plates for scrubbing later. “You want U.S. Army nut cake or a granola bar for dessert?”

  “A cigar,” J.B. said wistfully, tucking a toothpick into his mouth.

  Knowing how difficult his struggle to quit smoking was for the man, Mildred patted him on the arm in solace and whispered a different suggestion.

  “That beats a cigar any day, Millie.” J.B. smiled, patting her hand.

  “And you have no idea how much I need it tonight,” she said, sharing a glance with Krysty.

  The redhead understood and moved closer to Ryan. Mildred had warned her the electric shock always hit men hardest in the kidneys. Nobody knew why; it just did. And from the grunts of pain she had heard when Ryan went to the bathroom before, they would only be exchanging some body heat in the bedroll tonight, and nothing more.

  “And now allow me to offer something special. A rare treat, indeed,” Doc said, producing a dusty bottle bearing a wildly ornate label. “I found this in the locked cabinet of the store. The door was most stubborn, but I persisted to victory.”

  “Mother of God,” Mildred gasped. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Quite so, madam.”

  “Incredible!”

  “Shine?” Jak asked, offering his plastic cup.

  “Ah, but this is no ordinary beverage,” Doc said, using a small knife to cut away the wax sealing the cork in place. Switching to the screw attachment on his Swiss Army knife, the old man successfully opened the bottle with a loud pop.

  “Now this should really breathe for an hour,” he apologized, pouring a small amount in the plastic cup of his mess kit before passing it along. “But our circumstances being what they may, I think we can dispense with that custom just this once.”

  “‘Napoleon brandy,”’ Krysty read as the bottle came her way. “Good stuff, eh?”

  “Absolutely the best,” Mildred stated, pouring a splash into her cup. Crystal goblets were what this should be served in, but those were from another time, a different world. “Now don’t gulp it down, take small sips.”

  Ignoring the advice, Jak drained his cup in a shot, and his eyes sprang wide. “Damn,” he stated in appreciation.

  “Indeed, Mr. Lauren.” Doc chuckled, biting back a smile at the pronouncement. “Not even the genius of Tennyson could have better described three-hundred-year-old Napoleon brandy than in such a manner.”

  “Fucking grade-A hooch,” Jak agreed, adding another inch and sipping the potent brandy. It filled his mouth with a magnificent changing flavor, and slid easily down his throat to fill his chest with warmth.

  Feeling the liquor begin to ease her muscles, Mildred added another splash to her cup and raised it for a toast. This was something they had not done for many months, and somehow it seemed appropriate this night.

  “To absent friends,” Mildred said solemnly.

  “Good toast,” Ryan said, lowering his cup, the soothing liquor easing away the ache in his joints. “But we’ve got to do this right and give names.”

  “Trader,” J.B. said without hesitation, raising his cup.

  “My sweet Emily,” Doc rumbled sadly, copying the gesture. “And dear little Lori.”

  “Finn and Flynn,” Ryan added solemnly. “Rick and Michael.”

  “Rona,” Dean stated. “Christina and Jenny,” Jak said softly, his hand tightening on the cup.

  “Mother Sonja,” Krysty whispered.

  “Paddy,” Mildred continued. “And Ellie, too.”

  Then Ryan stood and held his cup above the eerie blue flame. “Laurence,” he said simply.

  The rest of the companions rose and extended their cups. “Laurence,” they chorused, and drank a sip, then poured the rest onto the flames, making the fire soar with a majesty that filled the office with a fleeting moment of heat and light.

  After refilling their cups, little more was said for the rest of the night. The friends finished their drinks and took turns sleeping, listening to the silence of the huge city, feeling its million ghosts move by them in the darkness. But knowing that at least one of the unseen visitors would be forever by their side in any battle to come.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the morning, the companions decided to delay exploring for the gateway and rest until they were all back on their feet. All of the companions were stiff and badly bruised from their recent battles.

  A few days later, refreshed and invigorated, the group exited the bank at dawn to quietly ride their purring bikes through the still streets. Their packs and bedrolls were strapped across the rear fenders of the vehicles, lessening the load of equipment each carried, and making driving a lot easier.

  The metropolis looked exactly the same, but when they swung by the department store to check the sec droid, they found the remains of the machine were gone, and every window in the building was smashed, the sidewalks littered with torn merchandise. Parking the motorcycles a short distance from the store, Ryan and J.B. did a quick recce of the structure and found the interior had been completely trashed, clothing ripped to pieces, ceiling fixtures busted, display cases toppled over and mirrors cracked.

  “This kind of destruction wasn’t done by a sec droid,” Ryan said, using the Steyr to touch the mutilated form of a mannequin. There were teeth marks on the torso, and the head had been crushed into lumpy plaster.

  “Got to be an ape,” J.B. said, indicating a pile of droppings near an empty rack of candy bars.

  “At least one,” Ryan agreed with a scowl. What a pesthole this burg was becoming—spiders, sec droids and now the apes were here. The predark city was a treasure trove of supplies, but protected by an army of inhuman guards.

  “This is a bad spot to get trapped,” J.B. said, stepping over a clothing rack, the steel pipes bent and twisted. He had a feeling that something was real pissed about not finding any norms here.

  “Agreed. Let’s go,” Ryan ordered softly, the SIG-Sauer and Steyr sweeping the darkness outside the range of the lanterns for any movement.

  Staying alert, the two men took turns covering each other, one walking while the other stood still, until they backed out of the store into the sunny street. Even then, the men didn’t holster their blasters until among the other companions.

  “Hunters are here,” Ryan said, climbing onto his machine. Tucking the Steyr into a gun boot strapped to the frame, he twisted the throttle and the big engine kicked into life.

  “Robots and gorillas, behold the alpha and the omega,” Doc rumbled, his frock coat billowing in the morning breeze.

  “Think they’re hiding on the rooftops?” Dean asked, craning his neck to look skyward. Nothing was visible above them, except for the patchy clouds, irregular breaks in the storm layer giving brief glimpses of azure blue behind the fiery rads and chems.

  “More likely they’re in that park we passed,” Krysty said, flipping her hair over a shoulder. “Animals always return to the familiar, and that’s the only greenery we’ve seen so far on this mesa.”

  “Avoid there,” Jak said, sitting at the handlebars in front of Doc. Experimentally, the teenager spread his legs to stand over the bike, and was pleased with the lack of pain from his ankle. Mildred
was right: he needed only a couple of days’ soaking in hot water. Damn odd way to heal an injury.

  Just then, a window slammed shut, and something came off the ledge. The companions crouched and opened fire, blowing the plummeting object into dirty shards, the remains of the flowerpot crashing onto the back seat of a powder-blue convertible parked at the curb.

  “Could have been the wind,” J.B. said, sounding uncertain.

  “Mebbe,” Krysty replied, swiftly reloading her revolver.

  “Not going to take the chance,” Ryan said, revving the bike. “Let’s get out of here and find someplace where we can talk. Start moving.”

  Traveling a few blocks, the companions took a corner and braked to a halt in the middle of a deserted intersection. The location gave them a clear field of fire in every direction, and they could see anything coming their way long before it arrived.

  “Okay, before we go hunting for the gateway, we better get more supplies,” Ryan ordered, tapping the fuel gauge on the handlebars. Less than half a tank. “Shine is a priority.”

  Wisely, the others agreed. The department store had been low on vodka. They needed to find a well-stocked liquor store.

  “And additional ammo,” Krysty stated. “Only a couple of rounds for my Webley, and about the same for the Smith.”

  “Here,” Dean said, passing the woman a fistful of .38 cartridges. “I’m fine. Still have eighteen rounds for the Weatherby.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No prob.”

  “Watch for bars, taverns, any place with booze,” Ryan said, driving away slowly. “And stay sharp. We’re gonna need a lot more than a fistful of ammo to stop another sec droid.”

  Keeping to the middle of the streets, the companions began driving a spiral pattern around the city blocks, slowly expanding the area covered until finding a liquor store in the middle of a street lined with outdoor restaurants. The front door was unlocked, the shop open for business, and the people raided the shelves and storage room, obtaining enough vodka to fill their tanks. Always on the prowl, J.B. found a double-barreled shotgun hidden under the counter, but the weapon was empty, and no ammo anywhere. Some peaceful shopkeeper intended to use it as a prop to scare away robbers.