Eden’s Twilight Page 20

  “We can mourn the aced tomorrow,” Ryan growled, stepping back into the wag to grab the Steyr. “But right now we should do a recce for any survivors in that mansion. If we wait too long, they can get away.”

  “Get away…Hot pipe, man, are you crazy?” Scott demanded incredulously. “The blast damn nearly chilled us all, and we were a hundred feet away behind steel. There’s a dent in my port armor bigger than a horse!”

  “No, One-Eye is right. We have to check,” Roberto said, the signal coming in loud and clear over the static. “Big Joe, stay here and watch for stragglers. Take no chances, burn down anybody coming this way.”

  “The flamethrower is busted to drek,” Scott replied curtly, “but my crew is already reloading the missile pods. We’ll be hard in a few minutes.”

  “Good enough. One-Eye, meet me at the bunkers in five.”

  “Roger, Scorpion, see you there,” J.B. replied, and clicked off the mike.

  Side by side, the two war wags turned and rumbled back to the ruin of the bunkers. They parked just at the edge of a large depression, the undamaged headlamps shining brightly down into the murky depths. The craterlike hole was yards deep, the blackened sides lumpy with fieldstones, splintery logs and the grisly remains of people, the limbs still steaming from the hellish heat of the explosion.

  “Okay, Jak and Mildred, stay with Krysty,” Ryan said, working the slide on the SIG-Sauer. “Burn anybody who tries to get inside without the name code. J.B. and Doc, with me.”

  “Consider me Porthos, my dear Ryan,” Doc said, sheathing his sword in the ebony stick.

  “Millie?” J.B. asked, holding out a hand. The physician tossed him a small item and he tucked it into a pocket.

  “Watch your ass, lover,” Krysty said, shielding her eyes from the glare of the headlights. The red filaments were tightly coiled to her head, revealing how much pain she was suffering.

  “I sound horn, come running,” Jak ordered with a scowl. “You hear twice, we on way.”

  Nodding, the three men climbed out of the UCV and proceeded carefully through the assorted destruction, the ground slippery in spots from cooked organs. The smell was disturbing, appetizing and revolting at the same time.

  As the companions reached the crumbling edge of the blast zone, Roberto and Jessica arrived with a dozen of his crew.

  “I really didn’t think the baron would be stupe enough to store everything together,” Roberto said. “What a colossal waste of supplies.”

  “Might be something in the house,” Ryan suggested, checking the action on the Steyr. “At least we don’t have to worry about any more land mines.”

  “Why not?” Jessica demanded, then her face softened. “Right. The blast would have set them off.”

  “Angelo, Phillip, stay here, and guard our rear,” Roberto commanded, thumbing back both of the hammers on his sawed-off shotgun. “Let’s see what the good baron stored in his cellar, other than ammo.”

  The steep slope of the hill was difficult to traverse. Clearly there had once been a flight of wooden stairs, but those were long gone, and the loose soil constantly shifted under their boots. The group was almost out of the headlight beams when the arc lights of War Wag One hummed into operation and swung upward, clearly illuminating the way. Warily keeping out of each other’s shadow, the group eventually reached the top and paused, weapons at the ready. But there was no need. The titanic blast of the bunkers had razed the mansion to the ground; nothing was visible above the soil. Starting across the lawn, Ryan saw quite a few gaping holes, showing where land mines had been buried, the explosive charges triggered by the brutal shock wave of the gargantuan blast.

  Proceeding around the summit, the group found what remained of the house scattered down the far side of the hill: chunks of walls, wooden beams, roof tiles, carpeting, pots and pans, broken chairs, a bathtub and numerous bodies. The limp figures lay amid the wreckage, all of them wearing the black uniform of a sec man, but none of the corpses were quite intact enough for them to be able to identify it as a man, woman or even norm.

  There were also quite a few bent pieces of metal tubes that Roberto and Ryan easily recognized as homemade bazookas, antiwag rockets.

  “I don’t know if those are strong enough to punch through our armor,” Ryan stated, resting the Steyr on a shoulder. “But there sure as shit are enough of them to do the job!”

  “Firepower and friends,” J.B. declared poignantly.

  Several of the crewmen muttered agreement. Yep, you could never have enough of either of those.

  “Okay, let’s make sure those assholes are chilled,” Jessica directed, pointing with the barrel of her big-bore Russian .44 T-Rex. “Everybody knows the drill. Hunt and chill. Don’t get too close, watch for grens and don’t waste brass just because we have plenty. Use your knives.”

  “We could use rocks!” a crewman stated bluntly, kicking over a corpse. The boneless body flopped over to obscenely jiggle for a while.

  Uncaring, the tiny blonde shrugged. “Whatever you like. Just get it done.” The job was handled swiftly.

  Afterward, the group reformed and finished the recce around the hill, then moved inward to check the rest of the mansion. A flower bed surrounded the crumbling foundation, the plants reduced to bare stems, the leaves and petals gone with the wind.

  Checking the dark earth for mines, the group reached the stoop and finally looked down into the basement. However, there was only darkness. The headlights of the wags were unable to reach into the recess because of the angle.

  Surprisingly, several of the crewmen pulled out plastic mirrors to reflect the lights down into the basement.

  Rather impressed, Ryan upped his estimation of Roberto and his people. Triple smart. There were unbreakable shaving mirrors in the U.S. Army backpacks they had found in the redoubt, but he hadn’t thought to bring one along.

  While the crewmen moved around the small squares of light, accomplishing next to nothing, J.B. pulled out Mildred’s survivalist flashlight, pumped the handle a few times and clicked it on.

  The powerful beam stabbed down into the gloom, revealing a relatively undamaged basement. Furniture was randomly scattered, chairs, sofas and tables, but none of the pieces seemed to be harmed in any way. There were several doors set into the walls, one of them locked with a wooden bar, and in the corner were brick stairs that seemed intact enough to risk, with a good chance of reaching the lower level alive.

  “Why isn’t all of that stuff in splinters?” a crewman demanded suspiciously, furrowing her brow. The longblaster in her hands was a rebuilt Remington, the wooden stock bound with gray tape, but the long barrel gleaming with fresh oil.

  “Shear factor,” Ryan explained. “The blast was so strong that it cut flat across the hill, unable to slow enough to reach down into the basement.”

  “Sort of like blowing the froth off a beer,” a crewman said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Bloody hell, that means there could be survivors down there,” Roberto muttered, drawing the S&W .357 Magnum blaster with his free hand. Testing the balance, he hefted both of the blasters. “All right, I’m on point! Jessica stays up here as the anchor, Ryan and his crew with me.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  With the flashlight showing the way, the mixed group descended the stairs and picked a path through the array of furniture to reach the first door. Inside they found a torture chamber, the iron hooks and screws on the walls horribly familiar.

  Moving to the next room, they unearthed a mechanical pressing machine, the hopper full of mutie ivy, a ceramic jug under the flow spout catching a slow drip.

  “Bet that’s the drug he put in our food,” Jimmy sagely guessed, crinkling his nose. There was no smell, but somehow he felt unclean just being near the mutie drek.

  “Better save some of it,” Ryan suggested. “Mildred is always saying how shine isn’t enough for real surgery, and we’ve never be able to successfully cook something she calls ether.”

  “Yea
h, my healer says the same thing,” Roberto admitted. He disliked the idea of using the foul stuff, but anything was worth a chance if it saved the life of a crew member. “Jimmy, take two jugs. Ryan, the rest is yours. We’ll torch this pesthole on the way out so it can’t be used on anybody else.”

  “Fair deal,” J.B. said, giving his highest compliment.

  The third room was full of canned goods, a treasure trove of predark food, each precious container coated with a thick layer of wax to keep out the corrosive damp. Wicker baskets would have to be retrieved from the war wags, and the goods hauled away to be inspected by both of the healers. Nothing in this pesthole could be trusted at face value.

  The next room was empty, the wooden wall racks designed to hold the homemade bazookas and bags of rockets. After that, the group found a different type of torture chamber, the wooden tables covered with leather straps to hold the victim firmly in place, legs spread wide.

  “Sweet Jesus, we wouldn’t be able to chill that bastard baron anywhere near enough,” a female crewman said with a dark scowl as they left the room.

  Heading for the last door, everybody braced for an attack when it suddenly swung aside with a loud creak. Then a battered sec man stumbled into view, his face and clothing covered with blood. He was a living nightmare; both eyes were completely crushed, the gelatinous sludge oozing down his bruised cheeks, red snot dripping from his broken nose and dark blood running freely from both ears.

  Blind and deaf, the pitiful thing staggered past the armed group, his trembling hands feebly clawing the air.

  With a very solemn expression, Doc aimed the LeMat, then lowered the handcannon. “My sincere apologies, Roberto,” he said. “This odious task is yours to fulfill. You lost kith and kin to these foul brigands, while we did not.”

  “Thank you,” Roberto said in a deep growl, extending the S&W .357 Magnum blaster until it almost touched the face of the pitiful thing that had once been a man.

  “Don’t waste the lead, Chief,” a crewman growled, pulling out a wicked knife. “I’ll do it for you.”

  “We don’t torture, newbie,” Roberto stated, cocking back the trigger, the tiny noise seeming preternaturally loud. “You got an enemy, you chill him. Torture only makes you worse than them.”

  “But my sister was on Three!” the crewman growled, taking another step forward. “My kid sister, Beth!”

  “As well as many of my crewmates,” Roberto said in a monotone, and triggered the blaster.

  The muzzleflash of the Magnum round actually touched the chest of the whimpering sec man. Hit point-blank, the man jerked from the impact of the hollowpoint round, staggered, then dropped to the floor. Feebly, the sec man tried to rise, then went still.

  “A debt of blood has been paid in blood,” Roberto said, cracking the cylinder to extract the spent brass. “You can have his blaster and boots. Leave the rest for the stingwings. Satisfied?”

  “Never,” the crewman snarled, sheathing the blade. “But it’s enough for now.”

  Suddenly there came the sound of running boots and a score of crewmen charged down the stairs, blasters leading the way.

  “Trouble, Chief?” Jessica asked, her Russian blaster in one hand, a crackling torch in the other.

  “Just finishing the job,” Roberto said, sliding in a live cartridge and closing the cylinder with a snap.

  “Any chance it’s the baron?” Jessica asked hopefully.

  “No, just a wounded sec man,” he answered, tucking away the blaster.

  “Pity,” the woman muttered, coming closer and lowering the torch for a look. As the mutilated face came into view, she inhaled sharply. “Nuking hell, I know this man!”

  “How?” Ryan demanded, his hand unconsciously tightening on the checkered grip of the SIG-Sauer.

  “It was five, no, six years ago,” Jessica muttered, kneeling closer to the corpse. She reached out to touch his hair, then withdrew her hand, wiping the fingers clean on her pants. “We met once on the docks at the Hollywood Islands. We played cards until dawn and spent the night together.” She stood, her face bright from the firelight. “Sir, his name was Emile Thornton, and he rode with Broke-Neck Pete.”

  “Are you serious?” Roberto asked, his words dripping scorn. “He was crew?”

  “A chief mech, yes, sir. Emile knows…knew machines like Eric does comps.”

  “Interesting,” Roberto muttered thoughtfully, rubbing his jaws. “Then he’s not somebody Pete would ever let go willing.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, he wasn’t a prisoner, that’s for damn sure,” Ryan stated, gesturing with the Steyr. “He’s packing iron.”

  “Mayhap he was a spy?” Doc offered uncertainly.

  “Well, of course he was a fragging spy. The question is. who did he work for?” Jessica demanded. “We know that Conway liked to jack travelers, so was Emile here to learn more about the ville to help Pete take it down, and loot the armory?”

  “Or was he working for the baron to try to lure in Pete to get jacked himself big time.”

  “No loss there.” Jimmy sniffed, leaning against the wall. “Broke-Neck Pete is the biggest son of a bitch I ever met. Cheats on deals, sells blasters to slavers and cannies, and even trades brass filled with dirt if he ain’t coming back to your ville.”

  “He ain’t nothing but scum on wheels,” a crewman added emphatically.

  “Yeah, jacking the ville makes sense,” Ryan said slowly, thinking out loud. “Unless Pete was actually waiting here for you folks to arrive.”

  “What for?” Roberto asked, creasing his forehead. “To join my crew as a mech, and learn where I hide my caches of supplies?”

  “That’s sounds like Pete, sure enough,” J.B. stated, tilting back his fedora. “He’s been known to do it before.”

  “Has he?” Jessica asked sharply. “I never heard that.”

  “Oh yeah. Pete once tried to sneak a spy onto Trader’s convoy…the original one, I mean,” Ryan added diplomatically.

  “Dark night, when Trader found out, he went Magnum, full-auto!” J.B. said with a hard laugh. “He shoved a gren in the mouth of the damn spy, pulled the pin and heaved the bastard off a cliff!”

  “Then he tracked down Pete and hung the son of a bitch from the blaster turret of his own war wag,” Ryan added.

  “But…” Jimmy started to ask.

  “Yeah, of course, Pete lived. He’s a tough little bastard, I’ll give him that much,” Ryan relented grudgingly. “But his neck has been crooked ever since.”

  “Trader did that?” Roberto asked in surprise.

  “Bet your ass,” J.B. stated with pride.

  “Indeed, a most disreputable blackguard,” Doc said, leaning on his ebony stick. “It is only logical that Pete must be after your hoard of supplies.”

  “Damn straight!” a crewman agreed.

  “Unless, of course, he was trying to obtain that journal you have locked away somewhere in War Wag One.”

  Everybody stopped talking at that, and the night suddenly felt much colder as a hard wind blew into the open basement, carrying the reek of powder, diesel fumes and death.

  “What…what did you just say?” Jessica whispered.

  “Why, nothing of import, madam,” Doc demurred, slightly askance from her overreaction. “I was merely postulating on the remote possibility that—”

  “Nuke-sucking hell, that must be it!” Roberto interrupted, his face contorting in a feral snarl. “That lily-livered piss-pants Pete would never have the brass to risk crossing me, unless the stakes were massive! Unbelievably huge!”

  “And there’s nothing bigger than Cascade,” Jessica agreed.

  “The problem is,” J.B contributed, “if Pete is seeking allies in this…”

  “Then the secret is out,” Roberto finished roughly, running stiff fingers through his hair. “God’s tits, we’re going to have every fragging trader alive on our ass all the way to Cascade, plus an army of coldhearts, mebbe even the triple-damn slavers!”<
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  “Then we don’t go,” Jessica said simply. “If we can’t get there safely, we don’t even try. We can try again next spring.”

  “Do you really think Pete will lose his hard-on for Cascade after only a couple of months?”

  “No,” she admitted honestly. “But someday he will.”

  “But what about all those new blasters!” a crewman asked.

  “Frag it,” Jessica sniffed, hitching up her gunbelt. “We have enough.”

  “Unfortunately, we have to go,” Ryan stated in a clear loud voice, drawing everybody’s attention. “You don’t have the only doomie in the world, and if somebody else has learned where the predark city is hidden, it could be ashes when we get there next year. Hell, next month!”

  “Yeah, I thought of that, too,” Roberto said unhappily. “Just wanted to see if anybody else reached for the same can of beans as me.”

  “Besides, if Broke-Neck Pete, or any of a dozen other rat-fuck traders, ever got their hands on unlimited ammo and blasters,” J.B. added brusquely, shifting his munitions bag, “it would be the start of a nukestorm across the whole damn continent that would make the Mutie Wars seem like a fucking Sunday afternoon tea in a gaudy house.”

  “Orders, sir?” Jessica asked, snapping a salute.

  “We bury everybody in Three,” Roberto directed. “Recover anything that can be repaired, Molotov this fragging basement, and leave. Time is short, and we better haul ass.”

  “Check!”

  “You forget one thing,” Ryan added. “We need to make sure that Pete can’t get supplies here anymore.”

  Already walking toward the stairs, Roberto stopped to turn around. “Yes, I know,” he said softly, the words almost lost in the wind.

  “My dear Ryan!” Doc cried in shock. “Are you suggesting that we smite the entire ville as retribution?”

  “Have to,” Jessica replied curtly. “We have got to send a message across the Deathlands that nobody can try to jack a trader, any trader, and live.”

  “It’s unconscionable! Barbaric!”

  “But there’s no other choice. It has to be done! There’s not much civilization out there, and traders doing business are the only thing holding it together. If we fall, it’s over.”