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Bloodfire
James Axler


Life in twenty-second-century America is an odyssey of pain and death. Savagely transformed by atomic fallout, what remains of humanity endures an internecine war against those who thrive on chaos and bloodshed.A legend in a violent land, Ryan Cawdor lives and fights by his own rules as he and his companions traverse the grim world of Deathlands. For as long as the future remains out of reach, survival means living long enough to face a new day.Hearing a rumour that the Trader, his old teacher and friend, is still alive, Ryan and his warrior group struggle across the treacherous Texas desert to find the truth. But an enemy with a score to settle is in hot pursuit–and so is the elusive Trader. The preDark city of Sonora–preserved for a century in the salt and sand of the nukescape–becomes the staging ground for a showdown between mortal enemies, where the scales of revenge and death will be balanced with brutal finality. In the Deathlands, the only law is lawlessness.









“Dark night, there’s a land tank over there!”


“Alone?” Ryan demanded pointedly.

“No, wait, there’s two of ’em! Big as anything I’ve ever seen. Some smaller wags, too. Couldn’t get a good look.”

“Is the war wag an APC?” Krysty asked, squinting to try to see past the conflagration.

“Converted trucks,” J.B. said, lowering the longeyes. “Machine gun blasters, rocket pods on the roof, and what sure as shit looks like a radar dish.”

“Just sitting there, or is it turning?” Ryan asked.

“Turning steadily.”

“That means it’s probably working,” Ryan muttered, a hard smile crossing his face. “That’s gotta be Trader.”

“Indeed, logic dictates it to be so,” Doc rumbled, and then added, “How can we assist him in this internecine battle?”

“Their fight is about as civil as a jihad, ya old coot,” Mildred shot back. “This unknown Trader may be somebody we can trust, or not. But we know for a fact that Gaza is a mad dog and the sooner he’s wearing grass for a hat the better.”




Other titles in the Deathlands saga:


Pilgrimage to Hell

Red Holocaust

Neutron Solstice

Crater Lake

Homeward Bound

Pony Soldiers

Dectra Chain

Ice and Fire

Red Equinox

Northstar Rising

Time Nomads

Latitude Zero

Seedling

Dark Carnival

Chill Factor

Moon Fate

Fury’s Pilgrims

Shockscape

Deep Empire

Cold Asylum

Twilight Children

Rider, Reaper

Road Wars

Trader Redux

Genesis Echo

Shadowfall

Ground Zero

Emerald Fire

Bloodlines

Crossways

Keepers of the Sun

Circle Thrice

Eclipse at Noon

Stoneface

Bitter Fruit

Skydark

Demons of Eden

The Mars Arena

Watersleep

Nightmare Passage

Freedom Lost

Way of the Wolf

Dark Emblem

Crucible of Time

Starfall

Encounter: Collector’s Edition

Gemini Rising

Gaia’s Demise

Dark Reckoning

Shadow World

Pandora’s Redoubt

Rat King

Zero City

Savage Armada

Judas Strike

Shadow Fortress

Sunchild

Breakthrough

Salvation Road

Amazon Gate

Destiny’s Truth

Skydark Spawn

Damnation Road Show

Devil Riders


Bloodfire

DEATH LANDS®

James Axler












Power, like a desolating pestilence,

Pollutes whate’er it touches; and obedience,

Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,

Makes slaves of men, and, of the human frame…

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab (1813)




THE DEATHLANDS SAGA


This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to nature’s heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville’s own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan’s close ally, he, too, honed his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn’t have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan’s young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity’s last hope….




Contents


Chapter One (#ua20df4f6-c654-5a89-9615-3427631b1f55)

Chapter Two (#u905beba5-96ef-5767-a534-c7eddadba2f1)

Chapter Three (#u3fb4997f-da76-54ca-9f4f-de64b5338251)

Chapter Four (#ud1695b37-22c9-50e0-9132-c8bd95f11dac)

Chapter Five (#u2fd63b62-2dcb-5ece-aced-33e95a6b44c4)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


On through the night they rode, seven people on six horses, the unshod hooves of the animals pounding against the hard-packed sand of the desert.

Streaks of light were starting to brighten the overcast sky as dawn slowly came to the Deathlands. Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning flashing bright as a gigavolt of electricity slashed into the planet like fire trying to cauterize an open wound.

Suddenly, a ravine yawned wide in the ground before the companions, the edges sparkling with a residue of salt that infused the entire landscape from the crashing ocean tidal wave caused by the nukecaust so very long ago. Digging in their heels, the companions urged the animals to go faster and jumped the pit, landing hard. The horse with two riders went to its knees for a moment, then, struggling erect once more, it continued after the others.

The seven friends were red-eyed and hunched over, exhausted from the race for survival. The bridles of the horses were sopping wet with saliva and flecked with foam. The humans and horses were all drenched in sweat, the chill of the night slowly passing as the fiery sun exploded over the horizon, bathing the world in its fire.

Moving to the steady motion of the powerful stallion he rode, Ryan Cawdor fought his exhaustion and tried to stay in control of the beast. Tiny particles of sand and salt hit his scarred face like invisible sleet, getting underneath the leather patch that covered the ravaged hole of his left eye. His clothes were stiff with dried sweat and caked with blood, thankfully none of it his. Escaping from Rockpoint had been a nightmare of snipers on the walls and savage cougars running wild in the streets. The weapons he had stolen from the local baron’s secret arsenal were long gone, and now Ryan carried only his personal blasters, a 9 mm SIG-Sauer at his hip, and a bolt-action Steyr SSG-70 longblaster strapped across his back. The blasters had been with him a long time, and in his expert hands usually proved more than deadly enough for anything the Deathlands could throw his way. Not everything, but most.

Following a swell in the sandy ground, the group of people slowed as the horses galloped up the sloping side of a large sand dune. As the panting animals crested the top, Ryan saw that the dune stretched hundreds of feet and offered the friends a good panoramic view of the desert in every direction. Perfect. If that damn APC came their way again, its headlights would give away its approach in plenty of time for them to ride off again.

“Give them a rest!” Ryan shouted, his voice a throaty growl from thirst and exhaustion. “We stop for five!”

Pulling back on the reins, the companions allowed their mounts to slow to a canter, then walked them to an easy stop. As the dawn steadily grew brighter in the east, the others could now see that the dune was covered with green plants of some kind. Hungrily, the horses sniffed at the vegetation, then snorted and turned away in disgust. The reek of salt from the mutant weeds was strong enough for the humans to detect. The plants were as inedible as the sand itself.

Sliding off the rear of the mount he shared with a boy, J. B. Dix stretched a few times to work the kinks out of his sore muscles. Dark night, he thought, it had been a mighty cramped ride sharing the horse, and more than once he’d been sure he’d lose his grip on the saddle and go flying off.

Short and wiry, John Barrymore Dix was dressed in a loose shirt and trousers, a leather pilot’s jacket and fingerless gloves. An Uzi machine pistol hung across his chest, and an S&W M-4000 shotgun was slung over his back.

“Just in case I forgot to say it before,” J.B. said, offering a hand to the boy, “thanks for saving my ass back there.”

Still on the horse, Dean Cawdor stopped massaging the neck of the big Appaloosa stallion and looked down at the adult. Appearing many years older than his real age of twelve, Dean had a bloody streak across his face where some hot lead from a sec man’s blaster had just grazed his cheek during the escape. The son of Ryan, the youth was growing rapidly, and there was little doubt that he would be even taller than his father some day.

A veteran of a hundred battles, Dean had a Browning Hi-Power pistol holstered on his hip, and a homemade crossbow and quiver hung across his chest. The bulky weapons had been in the way a lot during the ride, but he needed the room behind to fit J.B. on the horse.

Reaching down, Dean took the offered hand and the two shook before breaking into weary smiles.

“No problem,” the boy replied.

J.B. released his grip and turned to walk to the edge of the dune. Tilting his fedora to block the wash of growing sunlight, the man studied the sprawling landscape to the north, then reached into the canvas bag hanging at his side, rummaging through the fuses and black powder bombs to unearth a brass cylinder about the size and shape of a soup can. With an expert snap, he extended the antique telescope to its full length and swept the distant horizon to the north.

“Looks clear,” J.B. announced, adjusting the focal length of the scope. “I think we lost them.”

“Thank Gaia for that,” Krysty Wroth exhaled, reaching into the backpack tied just behind her saddle. The rawhide lashings were loose from the wild ride, but the pack of food and ammo was thankfully still there.

Sticking up from the gun boot attached to the saddle was the stock of a recently acquired longblaster called a Holland & Holland .475 Nitro Express. It was the biggest weapon the woman had ever seen, and firing it almost wrenched her arm from the socket. But the big-bore rounds did a hell of a lot worse to the sec men they hit, blowing one man clean out of his saddle and beheading another. She was down to only a few more rounds for the monster, after which it would become a liability and not an asset.

Tall and full breasted, with an explosion of fiery red hair and emerald-green eyes, Krysty more looked like a baron’s plaything than a tough survivor, and many fools had died learning the truth of the matter.

“No more than one drink apiece,” a stocky black woman directed, pouring some water from her own canteen into a cupped hand and offering it to her panting horse. “We need to conserve until we reach fresh water again.”

Eagerly, the animal lapped at the fluid, its rough tongue seeking every drop. Dr. Mildred Wyeth was in a red flannel shirt and U.S. Army fatigue pants, her ebony hair fashioned into beaded plaits. A patched satchel hung from her shoulder, and the checkered grip of a Czech ZKR target pistol poked out of her shirt where she had tucked the weapon away for safekeeping. Mildred had almost lost the blaster twice from the rough ride over the irregular salt flats, and had no intention of challenging fate a third time.

Although she rarely spoke of the matter, Mildred considered her personal portion of luck long gone. Back in the twentieth century, she had gone into the hospital for a routine operation on a cyst, but there had been complications and they froze her to save her life. Ryan freed her from cryogenic suspension a hundred years later, a stranger in a new and desperate land.

“We’ll find water,” Krysty said, pulling out a canteen from her backpack. “That pipe under the temple had to come from somewhere. And the Grandee River isn’t that far.”

Then she paused for a moment until the throbbing in her temples subsided. Her hair had been cut by an arrow in the fight at the ville, and the pain still lingered. As she stroked the filaments, they coiled tighter, almost protectively about her hand, and as the dull agony eased somewhat the animated hair relaxed once more into a crimson cascade about her shoulders.

Taking a very small sip from the canteen, Krysty carefully washed out her mouth before taking a long drink. Born and raised in Colorado, she had learned early in life to always cut the dust from your mouth before drinking, or else you remained thirsty and wasted precious water taking a second, unnecessary drink.

Finally lowering the canteen, Krysty wiping her mouth dry on the sleeve of her bearskin coat, and tightly screwed the cap back onto the container. Waste not, die not, as her mother always used to say. Tucking the battered tin canteen safely away, Krysty then fingered her S&W Model 640 revolver to make sure it was still with her after the wild ride. Then kneeling, the redhead checked the knife tucked into one of her cowboy boots.

“Best not ride for a while,” Jak Lauren stated. “Horses rest or die.”

“That’s why I stopped here,” Ryan said, brushing back his wild crop of hair with stiff fingers. Sleep tugged at his eyes like deadweights, and he jerked his head to try to stay awake. This wasn’t the time or place to catch some sleep. Soon, though, they’d find someplace to make camp, and he’d get some rest then.

Grunting in acknowledgment, Jak awkwardly easing himself off the roan mare with his good arm, the other tucked inside his shirt stained dark with blood. He had caught some flying lead in the fight to get out of Rockpoint, but there had been no spurting of blood to show a major artery had been hit. It was only a flesh wound, the small-caliber round having gone clean through his arm without even hitting the bone. Soon it would be just another scar on the albino teen’s body, lost amid the dozens of others.

“My dear Ryan, are you quite all right?” a silver-haired man asked, sitting easily in his saddle as if born there.

Dressed in a frock coat and frilly white shirt with an ebony walking stick thrust through his belt like a sword, Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner seemed to be a refugee from the nineteenth century. A WWI web belt encircled his waist, the closed pouches bulging with ammo for the colossal handcannon resting on his hip. The large blaster was a Civil War–era LeMat revolver, a 9-shot .44 that used black powder. Though Doc looked deceptively old, he could wield the LeMat with authority.

Fighting back a yawn, Ryan scowled at the other man, then shrugged. “I could use some coffee,” he admitted in frank honesty. “Got an MRE?”

Doc nodded in understanding. MRE stood for Meal Ready to Eat, and the pack included a main course, snack, gum, cigarettes, candy bar, dessert, coffee, sugar, moist towelette and even toilet tissue for afterward. The companions found the MRE packs regularly in the redoubts, often with the protective Mylar wrapper ripped open, the food inside dried and useless. But they had a few of the precious rations saved away for when they couldn’t hunt for meat or trade for food at a ville.

Against his will, Doc had been an experimental test subject for Operation Chronos, the use of the mat-trans units for time travel. He had been abducted from his quiet university home in Vermont in the late 1880s and thrown rudely into the nuclear wastelands of the Deathlands. For a very long time his mind had been shattered by the event, memories lost and reason gone. But the episodes of madness were less and less frequent these days, which the scholar took to mean that he was slowly becoming adjusted to the present. He found this oddly disturbing. Doc was still grimly determined to find a way to go back in time to his beloved wife, Emily, and his children. They were long dead and buried, in the present, but still alive and well in the past. Someday, somehow, Doc would return to them, and God help anybody who got in his way.

“Indeed I do,” Doc replied, and slid off his mount to rummage in his backpack until he found a foil-wrapped package and tossed it over. “What’s mine is yours, my dear Ryan.”

“Nuke me, but coffee sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in years,” J.B. said, compacting the scope to tuck it back into the canvas bag, nestled between a thick coil of homemade fuse and several jars of grainy black powder.

“Has to be cold,” Ryan said, fumbling with the envelope from the MRE pack. “Still too dark for a fire. Up here, we’d be seen for miles. Might as well shoot off a bastard flare.”

“They go sleep?” Jak asked.

“Makes sense that they’d sleep during the day,” Dean stated, breaking in two a granola bar from another MRE pack and eating one part while giving the other to his horse. “Sunlight on APC, be acing hot by noon.”

The huge animal gobbled down the tiny morsel in less than a second and impatiently shifted its hooves, hoping for more. The others whinnied and nickered for food, hungrily glancing at the weeds again.

“Lethally hot, you mean,” J.B. corrected, straightening his fedora. “I remember traveling with the Trader, we would sometimes find deaders sitting behind the controls of an armored wag, the stink of roasting flesh filling the air inside.”

“How delightful,” Doc said with a frown, revolving the cylinder of his LeMat to inspect the load in each chamber. “Thus the only question is who is in the infernal contraption chasing us, Gaza, or Hawk.”

As carefully as mixing explosives, Ryan poured the hundred-year-old coffee crystals into his partially filled canteen, then screwed the cap on tight and sloshed it about for a minute before taking a sip. It was cold and strong, but he could feel the caffeine wash away the fog from his mind, and after another swallow, Ryan passed the container around to the rest of the companions. Each took a measured swig, and the canteen was passed around twice before it was drained.

“Needed that,” Jak said, shifting his wounded arm inside his shirt, the dried blood making the material as stiff as old canvas.

“I really should look at that wound before it becomes infected,” Mildred said, opening the flap on her satchel and going to the teen.

“No time,” J.B. replied, gazing toward the eastern horizon. “We got to keep going. Too damn visible on top of this dune.”

The pinkish glow of true dawn was expanding across the sky. Soon, night would be over and the heat would really start to increase.

Wiping the crumbs of the granola bar off his face, Dean added, “Sunup will bring out the millipedes and scorpions.”

“We water the horses one last time and then ride,” Ryan ordered, a touch of his old strength back in his voice. Fatigue still weighed down his bones, but he felt good for another couple of miles. More than enough for them to find some shelter from the heat and the bugs. There were supposed to be some ruins to the southwest of there—those would do fine, if they weren’t too far away.

There was hard wisdom in his words, so the weary companions saw to the needs of their mounts with what supplies could be spared. Draining off the last of her canteen, Krysty refilled it from the big leather bag she had grabbed in the corral when they stole the horses. Cupping a hand, she pooled some water in the palm and offered it to the chestnut mare. Eagerly, the horse lapped it off her skin and nudged her for some more. But as she refilled her hand, the animal sharply inhaled, then trembled all over. As the horse suddenly fought for breath, blood began to trickle from its mouth, its eyes rolling upward until only the whites showed.

“Gaia!” Krysty cried in horror, dropping the canteen.

Weaving about as if drunk, the animal unexpectedly dropped limply to the ground and went into violent convulsions before going very still.

“It’s dead,” the woman said softly, then jerked her head to stare at her wet palm as a horrible realization filled her with gut-wrenching dread.




Chapter Two


Rumbling and clanking, the battered APC rolled along the irregular landscape of the Texas desert, its cracked headlights throwing wild columns of splayed light ahead of the war wag as it rose and fell.

Crouched in the driver’s chair, Baron Edgar Gaza stared hatefully through the small rectangular slit of an ob port, his hands clenched hard on the steering yoke of the preDark vehicle. Once there had been periscopes for the driver and gunner to see through without exposing themselves to enemy fire, but those had been broken long ago, and now the only way to see was through small rectangular vents.

In the rear of the war wag, four of his wives were sitting near the gun ports, their pale hands expertly cradling 9 mm Uzi machine pistols. Spare clips were thrust like knives into their belts, and each bore fresh wounds from their recent battles, bloody bandages covering their legs and arms.

Sitting in the middle of the deck, his first wife was clumsily working on a .50-caliber machine gun, trying to figure out how to unlink the ammo belt to make the big-bore blaster feed properly. The turret and gunner’s nest rose directly behind the woman, but those periscopes had also been smashed. The 25 mm cannon had survived intact but had been removed for use in the ville keep, and now they only had a .50-caliber machine gun to mount on the pintel stanchion. It didn’t have the sheer destructive power of the explosive 25 mm shells. On the other hand, it didn’t eat ammo as fast and the brass cartridges could be reloaded.

Gaza glanced at her, more pleased with the amount accomplished than the wealth of skin exposed from her position. Bending over the way she was, her full breasts were nearly coming out her blouse, the dark nipples clearly visible. Returning to the driving, Gaza felt vastly pleased with himself for choosing Allison. Sex was great, but a wife who could fire a blaster was worth a hundred times more than some dumb slut as beautiful as the moon but whose only talent was spreading her legs.

Suddenly, Allison snapped her fingers for his attention.

“What is it?” he demanded gruffly.

The mute woman gestured to the east and flipped over a hand until it was palm up.

Gaza frowned angrily. Dawn was near, eh? Nuking hell, they hadn’t traveled anywhere near the number of miles he had wanted. But the APC had broken down several times, and once during repairs they had been attacked by a swarm of millipedes. Damn mutie insects were harder than hell to chill, and only their rapid-fires had held them off long enough for Gaza to fix the diesel engine and get the APC rolling again. Little bastards still tried to get in through the air vents and had to be shot off with precious ammo. Damn the Core and their pet muties!

“Okay, I’ll find us some shade to rest in during the day,” the baron said, squinting through the ob port. “In the lee of a sand dune, or something.”

From experience he knew that driving the metal vehicle in the desert sun made it hot enough to ace a norm. They would have to drive only after sundown, and sleep during the day. That would put them at a disadvantage, since the headlights would give away their position for miles, but there was nothing he could do about that.

On the other hand, it would make tracking the outlanders a lot easier. His original idea had been to drive north into New Mex and take over some ville as their new baron. But Allison had vetoed that plan and insisted they go to the south, directly on the trail of Ryan and the others. Actually, this pleased Gaza greatly. As much as he wanted to be a baron again, revenge on the outlanders would be even better. Besides, the man knew it was always wise to follow the advice of the doomie.

Soon enough he would find the outlanders. Gaza only hoped that Allison had the machine gun operational by then. He didn’t want Ryan and the others merely dead; he wanted them torn into pieces too small for even the scorpions to eat. Mutilation, rape and bloody torture would have been better, but there was no time for that. Even as he hunted for the people on horseback, the sec men from his former ville might be hunting after him, as well. And they would want to do to Gaza exactly what he wanted to do to Ryan. However, his wives would never allow that to happen.

As if sensing these thoughts, Allison turned away from the gun port she had been watching and nodded at her husband. Gaza felt his skin crawl slightly at the idea that the mutie could be reading his thoughts, and turned to concentrate on the driving. The removal of their tongues had been done simply to protect his secrets, yet it also made each of his wives oddly loyal to him, as faithful as dogs, and he trusted their judgment implicitly.

Spewing great columns of bluish smoke, the APC angled away from the salt flats and into the rolling dunes seeking shelter from the oncoming daylight. Soon enough Gaza would find the others. Horses had to rest, but the APC could drive nonstop all night long. There was no possible escape for the outlanders from his war wag, the deadly machine gun and his doomie wife.

By tomorrow midnight, they should be dead at his feet, and then he could get back to his plan of seizing another ville to rule and continuing his war against the Trader.

AS THE REST of the companions rushed to her side, Krysty bent to sniff at her hand. There was no odor of any kind, but there could be no other logical reason for the horse’s violent death except poison.

“What in hell happened?” Mildred demanded, approaching the corpse with a drawn blaster. If the physician had learned anything living in the Deathlands, it was to approach every situation as if it was a life-or-death battle. All too often it was.

Ryan covered the animal with his 9 mm SIG-Sauer, while J.B. knelt by the animal and checked its neck. There was no pulse.

“It’s dead,” he stated, standing. “But this doesn’t look like exhaustion, and it’s not hot enough for heat stroke.”

Dean glanced upward. “Screamwing get it?”

Instantly, the other companions raised their blasters and scanned the lightening sky for any movement. Screamwings were tiny flying muties that could send a person on the last train west in a split second with their needle-sharp beaks. Small and fast, screamwings were harder than hell to shoot down and died trying to take its victim with them.

“No, it wasn’t a screamer,” Krysty stated, throwing away her canteen. “I think the water is poisoned.”

“All canteens?” Jak asked frowning deeply, his own blaster resting comfortably in his good hand. The blued steel shone like polished violence in the dim morning glow.

She shook her head. “No, I drank from that before, and so did my horse. It’s the big water bag.”

“Must be incredibly powerful toxins to cause this severe a reaction in so large an animal,” Mildred said in a clinical manner. “My guess would be a neurotoxin of some kind. Heavy metals and such would never work this fast.”

At those words, Krysty froze in the process of wiping her hand dry on her leg. Now the women knelt and scrubbed her palm with the salty sand until the skin was bright pink. Then she spit in her palm and wiped it clean again. Seeing the actions, Doc handed her a spare moist towelette from the opened MRE, and she cleaned both hands thoroughly.

“Calm down, it’s okay,” Mildred said, holstering her piece. “If the chemicals haven’t been absorbed through the pores by now, I’d say you’re safe.”

“Are you sure?” Krysty asked anxiously, her fiery hair relaxing back into gentle waves.

Kneeling by the dead animal, Mildred peeled back an eyelid to examine the pupils. They were fully dilated, but the creature could have glanced at the rising sun before dying. Drawing a knife, she pried open the mouth to inspect the tongue. There was no discoloration or marked lividity. Interesting.

“Am I sure?” she said honestly. “Not without an autopsy. Maybe the horse had heartworms.”

Jak snorted at that. “Dog get, not horse.”

“People, too,” Mildred corrected.

Tucking away his LeMat, Doc bowed his head and muttered something in the preDark language he called Latin that sounded like a poem or a prayer.

Keeping his weapon in hand, Ryan went over to the leather water bag lying in the sand beside the dead animal. “That was the bag we took from the stable,” he said, scowling, nudging the bag with the bulbous tip of the silenced blaster. The fluid inside sloshed about like water, and there were no telltale secondary motions of anything alive inside the sack. It had been a long-shot idea, but it never hurt to check.

“Can’t be the same. I drank from that bag,” Dean started hesitantly, then pointed and said. “No, wait, it was the smaller bag on Doc’s horse.”

“You triple sure?” Ryan asked sternly, squinting his good eye.

“Yeah, Dad, I’m sure.”

“Good. Then that water is clean,” J.B. said gruffly.

“Jak, what about your water?” Ryan demanded.

“Not used mine,” Jak said, patting the heavy bag hanging from the rear of his saddle. “Drank canteen before.”

Grabbing her satchel off the pommel of her mount, Mildred strode to the other horse and removed the bag as if it were a ticking bomb. Pouring some of the water onto the ground, she sniffed, then removed a small swimming-pool testing kit and ran a sample. It wasn’t much, but all that she had and it did give accurate results within a limited spectrum. Filling a plastic tube, Mildred added a few drops of chemicals and the water promptly turned a bright orange, and then went clear.

“Damn, the water neutralized the acid immediately,” she reported, holding the vial to the sunlight. “This is contaminated with a base chemical of some kind. There’s no way to tell for sure, but I would guess it’s scorpion venom.”

Doc raised an imperious eyebrow. “Ridiculous! Venom strong enough to kill a horse, madam?”

“These things like the daylight, instead of the night like a normal scorpion,” she reminded him. “And the ones caged back at Rockpoint were the largest I’ve ever seen. Who knows what other attributes may have mutated since the nukecaust?”

“Egad,” Doc rumbled, worrying the silver lion’s head of his swordstick. There was a sharp click, and the decorative head slid back to reveal several inches of shiny steel hidden inside the stick, then he slammed it back into place with a locking snap. “By the Three Kennedys, this is why those water bags were hanging near the horses!”

“A trap,” Dean said solemnly, scratching at his cheek.

“Makes sense,” Ryan grunted. “A bag of water just hanging there for anybody to take in a town where folks were killed over a thimbleful? It was just bait for horse thieves to take along. Then the locals could simply watch for buzzards in the sky and get their horses back.”

“Along with the blasters and other possessions of the thieves,” Dean added thoughtfully.

“Smart,” Jak drawled in wry acknowledgment, brushing back his snowy white hair.

“Millie, anything we can do to clean the water?”

J.B. asked hopefully. “Boil it or something?”

“Too bad not have bread,” Jak said. “Drain radiator fluid through stale bread and make drinkable. Not know if work this.”

“Piss might do it,” Ryan said calmly. J.B. made a rude noise at that, but Mildred agreed.

“That might work,” the physician said. “Urine neutralizes scorpion venom in an external bite, so logically it should also work on tainted water. Basic chemistry there, bases and acids.” Then she paused and frowned. “However, for water this strongly polluted, it might require so much urine that the resulting mixture would be rendered totally undrinkable afterward.”

“Well, I would certainly think so,” Doc muttered softly, trying to contain his revulsion.

Titling her head, Mildred smiled. “I agree. Tobacco also works on scorpion bites, but with the same results. The water might be safe, but nobody would willingly drink it until absolutely necessary.”

“Which might become the case,” Krysty said. “We’re low on water now, and have no idea how much farther it is to reach the lowlands where the Trader travels.”

“Couple of hundred miles at least,” Ryan growled, looking into the distance. “From now on, we piss in that bag and save it for boiling later.”

“Much much later,” J.B. said.

“We can only do this once,” the physician warned. “We’re already dehydrated, and the ammonia content of our urine will be dangerously high.”

“Better that than death,” Ryan said grimly.

“Okay, do we have anything else that hasn’t been checked over yet?” J.B. said wryly, hooking both thumbs into his belt. “We could be hauling a dozen more boobies among our stolen supplies.”

Quickly, the companions laid out their belongings and checked over every item carefully, but no other traps were discovered. That was good news, but it was tempered by the fact that the companions were now dangerously low on water and reduced to only five horses for seven adults.

“Mebbe take turns riding,” Jak suggested hesitantly, rubbing his wounded arm. “Horses too tired for double riders.”

Just then a large black scorpion scuttled into view from under a rock, snapping its pinchers happily at the heat of the morning sun. Standing nearby, Dean moved fast and crushed it under his combat boot, grinding the heel to make the little killer was thoroughly aced.

“Okay, no time to waste. We leave on foot,” Ryan commanded brusquely. “We need shelter and we need it bastard fast! We’re all going to walk for a while. That will let the horses get some rest in case serious trouble arrives and we have to ride again. If that comes, Dean goes with Jak on the stallion, J.B. with Mildred on the big gelding.”

Krysty stepped to the man and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Correction, lover,” she said sternly. “We walk, but you ride. Each of us caught some sleep yesterday, but you haven’t in days. We’re alive now because of that, but right now I doubt if you could shoot the side of a barn with your longblaster even if you were fragging inside the building.”

Inhaling sharply, Ryan felt his hair-trigger temper flare at the words, but then found himself too bastard weary to even argue. She was right. Even with the coffee working, he was on his last legs. Nodding assent, the man forced himself to climb into the saddle and squeeze his feet into the small stirrups. This had to have originally been a woman’s horse. Mebbe one for the baron’s many wives. Unless Gaza himself was a very small man. It was well trained and bridle-wise, but didn’t really seem to like a rider as large as Ryan.

“Okay, I’m on point,” J.B. said adjusting his fedora and swinging his Uzi around to the front. He worked the bolt, chambering a round for immediate use. “Two-yard spread. Jak and Dean, take turns leading your mount. Doc, you’re rear guard. Stay razor.”

“I am honored! And shall remain as sharp as the Sword of Damocles!”

Annoyed, J.B. glanced at Mildred.

“That means yes,” she stated.

Guiding the horses by the reins, the companions started across the dune and down the other side. Ahead of them stretched the endless vista of the desert, the salty ground rippling from the gentle morning breeze.

Allowing his tense muscles to slowly relax, Ryan swayed in the saddle. Slowly stooping his shoulders, Ryan expertly leaned forward, his hands crossed at the pommel, with the reins looped securely over twice. Slowly allowing himself to succumb to the sweet siren call of sleep, the big man’s eyes soon closed.

Walking close by, Krysty smiled as she heard a soft sound of snoring. Brave didn’t make a warrior bullet-proof, and even men of iron needed to eat and sleep.

AS THE COMPANIONS disappeared over the southern horizon, the salt and sandy ground of the big dune broke apart and strange figures rose from its depths, shaking off the loose debris. Standing taller than any norm, the beings were bipedal, but impossibly skinny, with every inch of their bodies wrapped in dirty rags that completely hid any possible view of their anatomy.

More of the creatures arrived from belowground, as their leader, who carried a long spear, bowed once to the sun, then gestured violently at the dead horse. Now the others pulled curved daggers from within their rags and began to dissect the corpse, the tainted blood flowing in rivulets down the slopes of the dune.




Chapter Three


Fleeting visions of a bad mat-trans jump boiled in Ryan’s dreams, constantly punctuated by distant blasterfire. Or great preDark war machines charging after the man with their cannons clicking on shells no longer there. Or sec hunter droids snapping deadly scissors, or…

With a start, Ryan awoke to find both hands tied to the pommel of the saddle. For a split second, he thought they had been captured and his blood surged with adrenaline, his wrists breaking apart the twine as he clawed for the blaster on his hip. But surprisingly, it was there and as the mists of sleep faded away, Ryan saw the other companions leading their horses along the brightly lit desert. Fireblast, just a bad dream.

“Good afternoon, lover,” Krysty said, glancing sideways. “Nice to have you back.”

Afternoon? Had he really slept that long? The dull ache in his back from sleeping in the saddle seemed to confirm that, and the sun was high overhead, the air stifling with heat.

Licking his dry lips, Ryan started to reply when a faint clicking sound reached his ears. When he realized Bloodfire that his usually silent rad counter was the source, he flipped his lapel and took a look, recoiling in shock when the counter revealed they were in a lethal zone. They were walking directly into a nuke crater!

“Everybody freeze!” Ryan roared, grabbing the reins and bringing the horse to an abrupt halt. “We’re hot!”

“What?” J.B. replied gruffly, turning. Placing a thumb behind his lapel, he flipped the cloth. “See that? Mine is—Dark night! I put it in my backpack at the ville for safekeeping!”

J.B. hurriedly snatched the pack from the saddle pommel, rummaged inside for a moment and removed a small lacquered box. Inside lay the precious rad counter. “Hard at the edge of the danger zone,” J.B. announced, his voice strained.

Suddenly, the companions went pale, each person straining to sense the invisible death pouring from the featureless ground around them.

“Which way?” Krysty asked, climbing onto her horse.

Taking the rad counter in hand, Ryan turned about in every direction until pointing due west.

“That way!” he said, kicking his horse into a trot.

Scrambling onto their mounts, the rest of the companions moved with a purpose and galloped after the man as if their lives depended on it. Nothing was said for almost an hour as they raced for safety away from the lethal rads, the featureless landscape flying beneath the pounding hooves of the animals. No predator was visible to the horses, but they seemed to be able to sense the terror of their riders, and were putting their hearts into a desperate race for life.

Reaching an embankment, the companions slowed their mounts to hurriedly walk down to the lower desert floor. Now patches of rock could be seen amid the salty sand of the desert, and Ryan called a halt to check his rad counter.

“This is far enough,” Ryan said in relief. “We’re clear.”

Exhaling in relief, the companions brought the horses to a ragged stop, then walked them about until facing one another.

“Out rads?” Jak demanded, slipping to the ground from behind Dean. During the long morning walk, Mildred had taken the opportunity to clean and bandage his bad arm. It was sore, but he could use it again to fire a blaster if necessary.

“Seems so. I’m reading only normal background count,” Ryan said, aiming the rad counter around just to double-check.

When satisfied, he attached it to his collar again.

Gazing back the way they had just come from, J.B. removed his hat to fan himself. “Damn good thing you woke up when you did. I was strolling us smack into a rad pit hot enough to chill us all.”

“Radiation,” Dean growled. “Hot pipe, I’d rather fight stickies.”

Stickies were the curse of the Deathlands. The size of a norm, stickies had sucker pads on their fingers and feet, and could walk walls and ceilings like insects. They attached their suckers to a person’s flesh and ripped off pieces until the screaming victim was only a mass of still beating organs. Ryan had once seen a sec men attacked by a swarm of stickies take a blaster and put a round into his own heart rather than be savagely torn apart by the muties.

“Gotta go,” Jak said, hitching up his belt. “Give bag.”

Krysty passed it to him and the teenager went behind a dune to answer the call of nature. A few minutes later he returned and passed her back the sloshing container.

“Here,” Dean said, offering his canteen.

Jak nodded in thanks and took only a sip, then passed the canteen back and placed a smooth pebble in his mouth. It helped a person to lose less moisture by keeping his or her mouth shut, and the salvia generated eased the pangs of thirst.

“Which way now, my dear Ryan?” Doc asked, shifting in the saddle.

His long hair ruffling in the dry wind, Ryan checked the rad counter carefully.

“West and southwest are clear,” he said in a measured tone. “I’d say south by west as that heads us closer to the Grandee.”

“River means fishing and means villes,” J.B. agreed, pulling out his minisextant from under his shirt to shoot the sun and check their position.

“Okay, we’re about four hundred miles from the redoubt on the Grandee,” he said, tucking the priceless tool away. “Might as well make that our goal, and we can expand our search for the Trader from there.”

“Hell, he might be there,” Ryan growled, chucking the reins to start his horse trotting.

As the companions rode their mounts at an easy pace, the sun reached azimuth directly overhead and started to turn the world into a searing crucible. The sparkling sand reflected the heat until it was difficult to see from the reflections, and the salt infused the atmosphere, making it difficult to breathe as every breath tasted of salt and leached moisture from their flesh. Knives were used on spare clothing to form masks, and the companions regularly wet a rag and wiped down the faces of their horses. The animals were starting to heave deeply, near total exhaustion, but until shade was found, there could be no respite.

As they walked the horses, Mildred reached into her satchel and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook to jot down the location of the radiation field. The notebook was a recent acquisition, and she often wrote her thoughts into the journal. Someday when she had the chance, Mildred planned to organize the material to leave behind a sort of legacy for others: medical knowledge, a true history of the Deathlands and its people, danger zones, etc. Perhaps nobody would ever read her words, but she felt compelled to record her observations.

The hours passed under the baking sun, and then cool relief came as a swirl of storm clouds expanded across the sky, blotting out the sun with unnatural speed. Now lightning crashed amid the purple-and-orange hellstorm above the world, and the companions paused for a terrifying minute as there came the strong smell of sulfur on the wind. Quickly pulling out the heavy plastic shower curtains taken from the redoubt a few days earlier, the companions braced themselves for an acid rain storm, but the reek faded away with the dry desert breeze and they relaxed. Muties and sec men could be fought, rad pits avoided, but when the acid rain came only stone, steel or heavy plastic could save a person from burns. And if the acid was strong enough, the plastic would be useless.

Doc suddenly gasped in delight as he spied a touch of green on the side of a small dune almost hidden from sight behind a much larger mound.

“Eureka,” Doc cried, and started to gallop in that direction.

With only his eyes showing through his makeshift mask, Dean scowled. “Trouble?” he demanded, the words muffled by the cloth.

“Good news,” Mildred translated.

Gesturing grandly, Doc cried out in delight. “Behold, ambrosia!”

Slowing his horse, Ryan looked over the area then checked his rad counter just to be sure. In the lee of the rocky dune was a small stand of cactus—Devil Fork, they were called because they resembled a fork with its handle stabbed into the ground. Some barrel cactus were mixed in, but mostly it was all Devil Fork. The husk of the desert plants was as hard as boot leather and covered with needles that could stab through a canvas glove. Dangerous stuff, but their roots went down for hundreds of feet into the sand, and the delicious pulp inside was a sponge filled with sweet water.

“We’re saved. That’s more than enough to replace the poisoned water,” Mildred said in relief, and climbed from her horse to walk to the cactus stand.

Pulling out a knife, she debated where would be the best place to start to cut when a breeze shifted the sand in a small whirlwind and the glint of steel reflected from amid the lush greenery. Now Mildred found herself staring at the bleached white bones of a human skeleton. Only a few tatters of clothing covered the body, and a scattering of brass cartridges and a homemade blaster made of bound iron pipe and wooden blocks lay near the hand.

Leaning forward, Ryan scowled from his horse. “He died fighting,” he said slowly. “Must have been an animal, something too big to reach him behind the cactus needles.”

“Why an animal and not a person?” Mildred asked, then she answered herself. “Of course. Because a man would have taken the rounds afterward. Check.”

“Doesn’t really matter, chilled is chilled,” Ryan stated pragmatically. “More importantly, those rounds look intact to me. Might be live.”

“Any chance they’re .44 calibers?” Doc asked hopefully. He was well stocked with black powder and miniballs for the LeMat, but he was dangerously low on bullets for the Webley.

J.B. adjusted his glasses. “I’d say those were .45. Sorry, Doc.”

The old man shrugged in resignation.

As J.B. started divesting himself of bags and weapons, Mildred walked over to the plants.

“Don’t bother, John,” Mildred said, starting to reach between the cactus, “I’ll get them.”

But as she knelt in the sand, there was a whispery sound and the companions turned to see an incredibly thin figure rise from the desert sand and lurch forward to hurl a spear directly at Mildred!

Caught by surprise, the woman didn’t react in time and the metal rod went straight past her, coming so close she could feel the wind of its passage. Then she dived aside and rolled over, drawing her .38 ZKR when there came a high-pitched keen and the cactus burst apart, writhing green tendrils streaming into view from inside the plant. Moving like uncoiling snakes, the tendrils stabbed for Mildred, and she cut loose with her blaster just as the rest of the companions did the same.

The Devil’s Fork screamed even louder as the hail of lead punched a dozen holes through its stalks and branches, one of the tendrils getting blown off the main trunk. Thin pink “blood” gushed from the wounds, and the mutie went wild, every tendril thrashing about and grabbing for the nearby norms.

A horse was caught in the throat by a tendril, its barbed needles embedding deep in the flesh like fish-hooks and dragging the screaming animal closer. Doc slashed out with his sword and cut through the ropy tendril, a well of pink ichor gushing from the wound. Another grabbed Jak around the neck, but as it tightened its grip, the tendril fell apart, severed by the razor blades hidden in the camou covering of the teenager’s jacket.

J.B. aimed and fired his shotgun as the companions moved away from the bizarre killer, the keening plant jerking as it was hit by another barrage of lead. Then a deafening report split the day and the main trunk erupted at ground level, the booming echo of the explosion rolling along the dunes like imprisoned thunder.

Lowering the smoking barrel of the Holland & Holland Nitro .475 Express, Krysty broke the breech, the two spent shells popping out to fall away as she thumbed in two more.

Revealed amid the smashed skeleton and torn pieces of the cactus was a pulsating wound of exposed organs, ligaments and tendons. Ryan fired two more rounds from his SIG-Sauer directly down the gullet of the creature and it went still, the pumping ichor slowing to a mere trickle and then stopping completely.

“Another mutie plant.” Dean scowled, dropping the spent clip from his blaster and slipping in a fresh one.

“Animal, not plant!” Jak cursed, using a knife to pry away the needle covered bits of the creature still clinging to his jacket. Oddly, it reminded him of the hellish ivy-covered town in Ohio where they nearly lost Krysty.

“Damn good camouflage,” Mildred said, shakily reloading her blaster and pocketing the empty brass for later reloading. “Certainly fooled me into thinking it was merely a plant.”

“But he knew,” Ryan said, the barrel of his blaster now aimed rock steady at the stranger wrapped in rags.

Doc swung the LeMat’s barrel in the same direction. The skinny person said nothing at those actions, simply standing there in silence, the dry wind tugging at the tattered ends of its wrappings.

“He saved Millie’s life with that spear,” J.B. said, racking the pump on his shotgun to chamber a fresh round.

“Unless he meant to ace her and that was a miss,” Ryan pointed out.

“Until proved otherwise,” Doc pronounced, “the enemy of my enemy is still my goddamn enemy.”

Thumbing back the hammer on her .38 ZKR target pistol, Mildred briefly gave the old man a puzzled look, then returned to the matter at hand. This wasn’t the time and place to find out where that paranoid quote had come from.

Just then the horse attacked by the underground mutie fell to its knees and started to shake. Ryan never took his eye off the stranger, but since it was his horse Doc rushed over to see what was the problem. As he got close, the scholar could see that the needles of the mutie were still sunk deep into the throat of the horse, red blood flowing from the severed end of the tendril. By the Three Kennedys, he thought, the piece of the dead mutie was acting like a tap and draining all of the blood from the horse!

Whipping out his eating knife, Doc tried to figure out where to begin trying to remove the needles in the horse’s throat when the animal gently lowered its head to the sandy ground as if it were going to sleep, then simply stopped breathing. Almost immediately, the blood ceased to flow on to the salty ground.

Standing helpless near the dead beast, Doc blinked moist eyes at the sight for a moment, then drew in a sharp breath and turned away.

“I am impressed. Drinkers are very hard to kill,” the stranger spoke unexpectedly, his words dry and raspy as if spoken through a long tunnel. “If I had known your iron weapons worked, I would not have revealed myself.”

“So it could drag us all down for dinner?” Ryan growled in a voice like granite. “It lived underground, and so do you. This seems pretty straightforward to me. So what was the deal? It hauls us down and you share in the food?”

The being tilted his head. “You walk the surface,” he said. “Does that make you friends of the rattler and the stickie?”

“Fair enough,” Ryan said, easing his stance but not turning away the blaster. “So who are you?”

As if in reply, a thrilling whistle came from the stranger, and the sand behind him shifted as more of the beings rose into view from belowground. Even as the companions aimed their collection of blasters at the newcomers, dozens more of the wrapped people came from the sand, then even more on both sides. Turning about slowly, Ryan and the others saw they were now surrounded by an army of the beings, every one of them armed with a needle-tipped metal spear or sicklelike longknifes. The ebony blades were worn from constant use, the handles stained with dried blood.

The figures stood at average height, sporting two legs, two arms and head, but each was so heavily wrapped in strips of loose cloth it was impossible to tell if they were men or women, even if they were norms or muties.

“I am Alar,” the first stranger said, “the leader of the Core.”

Even through the thick wrappings, Ryan could hear the capital letter being used. The Core, eh? That could mean anything. But there was something oddly familiar about how the being held the short spears in his bandaged hands, and Ryan grunted softly as he recognized the military postures from the guards at the Anthill. These were the descendants of army troops, copying the port arms and such of drilling troops. Only they were armed with spears instead of longblasters. The Core as in U.S. Marine Corps, or a nuclear core? Could be either way, and there was no way of telling.

“I’m Ryan,” he said gruffly, then introduced the rest of the companions.

Alar bowed to each, the rest of the Core copying the gesture. At the end, the masked people put away their weapons, and the companions hesitantly did the same. Since they were outnumbered by a fifty-to-one ratio, it seemed prudent to stay on smooth terms with these…people?

“Here you go,” Dean said, walking up with the spear from the Drinker and offering it to the Core leader.

Nodding his head, Alar took the weapon and stabbed it twice into the ground to clean the tip of the sticky pink blood.

“Thank you, small one. A weapon returned is a bond of peace with my people. I grant you free passage through our desert until the next moon.”

“The blessings of Gaia upon you, great leader,” Krysty said, making a gesture in the air too quick to be described.

With a scowl, Ryan asked, “And what happens if we’re still here by the next moon?”

Alar shrugged. “Then you must leave or join the Core forever.”

“Yeah? Nothing more?”

A warm breeze tasting of salt blew over the crowd, making the horses shift about to hide their faces.

“No, Ryan of the horse riders,” Alar said calmly, the sand dancing at his feet. “We are a peaceful people with only one enemy. We welcome all to join the Core.”

Or else you prefer to strike from behind, Ryan thought to himself.

“Sounds good,” J.B. admitted, rubbing his mouth on the back of a hand. “How about we go to your ville and talk. Any chance you got water to trade? We have a few spare blasters that are better for acing a Drinker than those pig-stickers you’re carrying.”

“Ville?” Alar muttered, crouching so that he rested on his heels. “We have no stone place. The desert itself is our home. We live in the sand, on the sand. We are of the sand!”

The entire crowd of masked people shouted a word in an unknown language.

Doc, Mildred and Krysty exchanged glances. They didn’t know the language, but the tone was familiar. The Core was chanting like a choir in a church. This Alar was more than their leader; he was probably also the local high priest.

“However, we can offer you drink and food,” Alar said, gesturing at the crowd.

Scurrying to obey, another being stepped forward to hand Ryan a clear plastic jug. The fluid inside was blue in color, almost a topaz.

“Doesn’t look like water,” Ryan said suspiciously.

“There is no water here,” a tall member of the Core announced sternly, thumping his spear twice on the ground at the word. “We drink jinkaja.”

“Drink,” Alar said in a friendly tone. “Drink and live forever!”

That stopped Ryan cold. “What do you mean, forever?” he demanded hostilely.

Still holding the spear, Alar spread his bandaged hands wide. “We do not die with the passing of the decades like you norms. The members of the Core are as ageless as the sands!”

“Right,” Mildred said slowly, taking the container from Ryan. The physician didn’t know whether that was a sales pitch, but either way she wanted no part of this jinkaja stuff.

While the others waited, Mildred inspected the blue fluid carefully. It was thick with a high viscosity, almost like a British beer. Removing the cap, she took a careful sniff. The smell was very pleasant, slightly citrus in nature.

“How is it made?” Dean asked, copying the squatting position of the Core leader.

“From the essence of the Holy Ones,” Alar said, bowing his head. “Once consumed you can take no other nourishment, not animal flesh or water. But you live forever!”

“As long as we keep drinking it,” Ryan said, feeling his temper rise like a red madness. With a major effort of will, he forced it under control for the moment.

Since Alar was covered in the cloth rags, it was impossible to read his facial expressions, but his body language was that of a parent explaining something very basic to a child. “Of course. To live forever you must drink forever. It is the way of the Core.”

Pale red ants had discovered the dead mutie and were now covering its remains, carrying away tiny pieces of its flesh. Then a scorpion appeared and began to feast upon the ants using both pincers. In a flash of movement, a Core member thrust out a spear and impaled the scorpion, lifting it high for the others to see until the mortally wounded creature went limp. Now he lowered the spear and shook off the tiny corpse so that it fell amid the ants. Without hesitation, the bugs swarmed over their dead enemy and began tearing it apart along with the mutie.

“Made from Drinker?” Jak asked scowling. “That Holy One?”

Throwing back his head, Alar actually laughed. “No, top-walker, it is made from the essence of the night-walkers, whose numbers are greater than their legs. Greater than the grains of sand!”

So the Holy Ones had a lot of legs, eh? Suddenly, Krysty recalled where she had seen blood almost the exact same color as this jinkaja.

“Millipedes,” she said in disgust. “It’s made from triple-cursed millipede blood.”

The crowd of masked people began to mutter at that, and more than one shifted their grip on a weapon.

“How dare the filthy top-walkers to defile the Holy Ones!” the tall Core member shouted. “Punishment!”

For a moment the world seemed to spin, and Ryan felt nauseous as if he had just emerged from a bad jump. As his vision cleared, he could see the others were also reeling slightly, Dean and Doc having both dropped their blasters onto the burning-hot salt. Only Krysty seemed unaffected, but her hair was writhing like he had never seen before.

“Stop!” Alar shouted, and the word seemed to resonate in both mind and ears.

Instantly, the queasy feelings were gone as if they had never existed and Ryan pulled out the SIG-Sauer again, the handle slick with the sweat from his shaking hand. The damn Core was ruled by doomies of some sort! Muties with mental powers. Mildred sometimes argued that they weren’t actually muties, but the next step in evolution unlocked by the cataclysm of skydark.

“Silence, Kalr,” the leader demanded. “It is not for you to decide.”

“It is the law!” Kalr shouted. “All drink or they must die!”

Doc and Dean bent to recover their weapons, but the rest of the Core seemed to be paying no attention to the outlanders. The group was splitting apart into two groups of about the same size.

“The law says they must drink or leave,” Alar corrected sternly as he pressed the shaft of his spear. With a metallic sound, razor-sharp blades snapped out along the entire length. The mirror-bright steel reflected the harsh sunlight like tortured rainbows. “And I have given my personal word they have until the next moon!”

“Useless! Pointless!” Kalr shot back, his own staff blossoming with similar razors. “They drink or die!”

“That is not what the law says.”

“Then the law is wrong!”

“You challenge the law!” Alar said in a flat tone, the crowd of beings behind the leader muttering angrily as more shafts snapped out blades.

Moving as carefully as if in a mine field, the companions were edging closer to their horses. This had every mark of a civil war, and those staffs could tear a norm apart with their razor teeth. On top of which a fight of doomies was something nobody wanted to be near.

“I challenge you!” Kalr shouted, throwing his staff into the ground.

A dry breeze blew over the rocks as Alar stared at the younger being, then with slow calculated care, the leader raised his staff high and also plunged it deep into the ground.

“Accepted!” he roared.

Now the rest of the Core moved away from the combatants, and the horses started nickering in fear. Without comment, the companions retreated from the two beings only seconds before the whole world seem to whirl once more, and the companions fell helpless to the ground, their minds exploding with visions of violent death and chaotic madness.




Chapter Four


Rockpoint was melting.

Holding a large duffel bag in both arms, Alexander Hawk struggled through the waist-deep water. The man was wide with muscle, not fat, his features oddly flat as if there were a lot of Oriental or American Indian blood in his heritage, or just a touch of mutie. His long black hair was held back in a ponytail with a ornately tied length of rawhide, his boots were some kind of lizard skin and a brace of pistols rode protectively behind the buckle of his gun belt, the handles turned out for a fast draw. The blue head of a scorpion tattoo peeked from under his shirt, and the scars marring his body were too numerous to count.

Towering high above the ville was the water spout rising from the destroyed temple of the Scorpion God. Scowling at the sight, Hawk sloshed around a corner of a sagging building as he headed for the front gate. As the chief sec man of the ville, Hawk had known the water shortage was a lie concocted by Baron Gaza to control the ville’s population. They had to obey his every command, or else he cut off their water ration. The plan was brilliant, simple and brutal. It had worked for years and would have for a lot more.

Then those damn outlanders came riding into town and blew the temple, cracking open some sort of a preDark pip large enough to drive a truck into! Now the entire ville was flooded, the houses and buildings and barracks made of sun-dried adobe brick were literally dissolving under the never-ending rain from the gushing water column in the center of the ville. Most of the people had already fled into the desert, but the ocean of water was right behind them, pouring like a river through the gaping hole in the ville wall, and spreading out across the Great Salt in every direction. Rivulets of trickling water were becoming shallow creeks, and several nearby depressions had filled into small ponds. Hawk had no idea when the torrent rising from the temple would stop, mebbe never. Mebbe the preDark river was connected to some freshwater sea and would continue pouring into the Great Salt until it was an inland ocean again the way the wrinkles said it had once been in ancient times, millions of years before skydark.

Tripping over something unseen below the muddy surface, Hawk almost dropped his bundle and tightened his hold on the heavy bag. The clouded water was filled with loose floating items from the disintegrating ville—straw, wooden spoons, some bits and pieces of preDark plastic and a lot of drowned scorpions. The little bodies bobbed about like veggies in a soup, and it broke the man’s heart to see so many of his beloved servants lifeless in the swirling muck.

Then he saw a large black scorpion perched precariously on a dead child. With a shout of delight, he scooped up the tiny desert dweller and it instantly stung him, the barbed tail struck deep into his hand. Hawk grunted at the pain and put the creature on a shoulder for safekeeping. The scorpion dug in its legs and grabbed his shirt collar in self-preservation.

Ever since he was a child, Hawk knew he was different from most folks, maybe a mutie of some kind, because he was completely immune to most poisons. He used this ability to make others fear him by always carrying around a lethal black scorpion, the giants of the desert who were five times bigger than their little red cousins. More than once that had saved his life, and it was how he became the sec boss in Rockpoint. People were terrified of a man who got stung a dozen times and it didn’t even faze him. As always, fear meant power, and now that the baron had fled, he had been their first choice to be the new baron.

It was a bitter victory, though, since soon there would be nothing to rule. Not here anyway, but he would find another ville, and with the bundle in his arms and his few remaining sec men, Hawk would rule as baron yet! Then someday he would find former Baron Gaza and chill the man with a knife, twisting it slowly in his guts until he begged for death, then twist some more.

With a groan, another building tilted sideways, and Hawk splashed hurriedly out of the way as the gaudy house fell apart, the crashing wall forming a wave that pushed the sec boss helplessly along until he slammed into the base of the keep. The impact knocked the breath from the man, and a sharp stabbing pain pierced through his shoulder, the bandaged wound in his chest suddenly leaking red blood.

Struggling to stay erect, Hawk lurched away from the keep, still holding on to the heavy bag. Made of preDark brick and cinder blocks, not dried mud, the keep was the only structure still standing undamaged. It also used to be the home of the baron and was armed with a 25 mm cannon in perfect working condition. Not even the Trader in his armored war wags wanted to face the Scorpion’s Sting, as Hawk liked to call the gun. It tracked fast and could chew through any mobile armor, treads or tires. Once a war wag was motionless, it could be easily covered with loose tree branches, or anything else that burned, and set on fire. The crew would cook alive if they stayed, or be shot the moment they crawled outside. Either way meant death.

Recalling the last time he had been inside the keep, hot rage flared in Hawk. Gaza had betrayed him, gunning down his sec boss because Hawk discovered that the baron was really a coward. Unfortunately for Hawk, he was a coward with a very fast gun and got the drop on the sec boss, but failed to finish the job properly. Now Hawk was back and hungry for revenge.

Reaching the area near the front gates, Hawk found the rest of his sec men sitting on their horses and kicking away the occasional person who begged for a ride, or for food. One man tried to take a longblaster from the boot alongside a saddle of a riderless horse, but another sec man caught the motion and fired from the hip. The would-be thief staggered backward to flop limply into the dark waters, and his companions descended upon the dying man to yank off his boots, knife and other possessions.

Since they were robbing a thief, Hawk paid no attention to them and splashed directly to the empty horse and carefully placed his bundle across the saddle. The horse whinnied at the tremendous weight and shuffled its hooves about unhappily, while Hawk lashed the bag firmly in place with lengths of rope and a few leather belts.

“All set,” Hawk declared, hurrying to a second horse and climbing into the saddle.

Twelve other horses stood before the open gate of the ville, and a small wooden cart. Eight men and two women were in the saddles, all of them heavily armed with blasters from the former baron’s private arsenal, the woman also carrying bulky packs of food and assorted supplies. Everything was soaking wet from the constant rain of the water plume, the roar muted to a low rumble.

“Black dust, I can’t believe you got it,” a sec man said, shaking his head.

“Gonna need it when we face the Trader,” Hawk growled, pulling a longblaster from the boot and checking the load. “Did you get the stand?”

A burly man with a full beard grunted in assent. “Yes, sir. It was bitch and a half to drag through the mud, but we got her here.”

“Good job, Mikel,” Hawk said bluntly. Always compliment your troops on a tough job. It only made them work harder on the next task. Gaza was a fool. Dogs and sluts should be whipped until they obeyed, not valuable property like horses and men.

Hawk had gone after the 25 mm cannon from the keep himself. He couldn’t trust anybody else not to run away with the blaster. A man could almost buy a ville with a weapon like that. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be fired by hand. The recoil would have torn off a person’s arms, but there was a tripod from a .50-cal that had been altered by a blacksmith. Mebbe that would work, mebbe not, but it was the only hope of controlling the monster rapid-fire.

Hawk sheathed the longblaster. “Ammo?”

“In the cart,” one of the women said, jerking a thumb. “Got all we can carry from the junkyard without busting an axle. Almost a thousand rounds.”

“Well done. Let’s ride,” Hawk said, shaking the reins. “We got some chilling to do.”

“Gaza?” Wall Sergeant Henny asked, shaking the water from his face.

“For starters,” Hawk growled.

As the armed sec men splashed through the sagging front gate of the dying ville, they entered a shimmering saltwater plain that spread to the distant dunes, the searing heat of the sun causing it to steam into mists as if this were the birth of a new world.

Even more than Hawk wanted Gaza screaming under his knife, the new baron needed to meet up with that black bitch who traveled with the outlanders. He had felt she was going to be trouble the moment they entered the ville, and he’d been right. Now the ville was gone, and while Ryan may have pulled the trigger, it was that bitch Mildred who loaded the blaster. Hawk planned on keeping her alive for a lot longer than Gaza, and in a lot more pain. He had once heard about some old sec men called Nazis, real preDark hardcases with some twisted ideas about revenge. Hawk liked their style and remembered some of the really good parts. Yeah, trees would grow, fed by the blood and screams of the hated woman before he finally let her go into death.

SLUGGISHLY, the companions awoke in cool shadow with a steady wind howling in their ears. Blinking at the darkness, Ryan realized it wasn’t shade, but night. Craning his neck, the man saw a scattering of stars peeking through the roiling clouds of tox chems high overhead. Fireblast, how long had they been unconscious?

From what he could see, the companions were sprawled in the corner of a piece of building, the brick wall forming a triangle, with the desert wind howling around the sides. They had been moved from the dead Drinker and could be anywhere by now. Reaching for his blaster, Ryan was consoled to find the weapon still at his hip, his Steyr SSG-70 stuck through the lashings of his backpack, the saddle nearby. However, there were no signs of the horses.

Squinting against the windblown sand, Ryan could vaguely see that ahead of them lay more pieces of preDark building, the smashed windows looking across the desert like the eyes of a corpse. A thick layer of sand covered the paved street, and no structure rose more than a few stories until abruptly ending in ragged destruction. Beyond these few tattered remnants of the lost civilization, only a flat, endless desert stretched to the distant horizon.

Forcing himself to stand, Ryan shuffled over to the other companions and shook each one to rouse them from sleep. Everybody stirred easily enough, and once figuring out where they were located, immediately ran a check on their possessions. To Ryan’s eye, it seemed as if their packs and bags hadn’t been touched. Even the water bags were present, including the poisoned leather pouch from Rockpoint.

The wind kicked up sand and salt, and it howled straight through one open window. Going to the empty window frame, Jak took one of the plastic shower curtains they had salvaged from the Texas redoubt as a makeshift rain poncho and used four knives to tack it in place, covering the opening. The force of the wind lessened noticeably, and the companions could fully open their eyes now without salt being blown into them.

“A plastic shower curtain is the most massively useful thing a hitchhiker can carry,” Doc rumbled in amusement, deliberately misquoting an ancient novel.

“Check your things,” Ryan demanded, his words making him wince. Once, very long ago, he and Finn had been involved in a drinking contest that stopped only when the ville bar ran out of shine. The next day Ryan was so sick he thought death was near and welcomed it with open arms. This was worse.

“Looks like everything is okay,” Dean whispered, running his hands over a backpack. Checking his blaster, the boy used a bowie knife to open a round and inspect the greasy cordite inside. Nope, the blasters hadn’t been tampered with and the ammo was live.

“Why did they take the horses?” Doc queried. “If it was to keep us here, then surely they could have bound us prisoners instead.”

“Mebbe got do by choice,” Jak muttered, using his good arm to run stiff fingers through his unruly mane of snowy hair. “Why do hard way, when got no choice?”

“That makes chilling sense, Mr. Lauren.”

The teenager shrugged as he made sure his collection of knives was intact hidden in his clothing. His wounded arm had come out of its sling, but was still otherwise okay.

“Passive-aggressive recruitment techniques.” Mildred snorted in disdain, fingering a rip in her flannel shirt where a button had come off somewhere. Probably while they were being transported to this place. “Well, that’s a new one on me.”

“Shh, not so loud,” J.B. said, holding his glasses in one hand while massaging the side of his face. Then he noticed Krysty sitting quietly by herself. “How you doing, Krysty? You don’t look so good.”

Hunched over, Krysty said nothing in reply, her limp hair moving freely in the wind.

“You okay, lover?” Ryan asked gently, kneeling by her side. “I’m surprised you didn’t pass out before the rest of us, since you have some mental abilities.”

She glumly nodded, moving as if every atom of her body was in agonizing pain. “Worse,” the redhead muttered, hanging her head.

“What do you mean?”

“I stayed awake,” Krysty said woodenly. “I…saw everything. They fought each other with nightmares, demons in the mind. Alar aced Kalr with visions that drove him insane and cracked his mind until he died.”

She looked up with tears streaming down her face. “Gaia, help me, I saw it all! Everything! The things they did to each other…the…I…”

The woman began to shake violently and Ryan comforted her in his powerful arms, rocking slightly as if she were a child while the woman wept unashamedly on his chest.

“I got a pint of shine,” J.B. said quietly.

“Get it,” Ryan ordered softly.

“Just a minute,” Mildred countered and, rummaging through her satchel, Mildred dug out a battered tin canteen and passed it around to the others. Doing a jump through a mat-trans unit always made them ill—headaches, nausea, muscle cramps, which she attributed to a disruption of the human nervous system for that split nanosecond they were pure energy being shifted from one redoubt to another. The physician had been working a cure to counter the jump sickness using alcohol, herbs and what painkiller she could scrounge in the ruins or trade spare ammo for from other healers.

The companions relaxed and slumped gratefully against the brick walls. Mildred hadn’t found a potion that worked yet, but this batch seemed to be effective in countering the aftereffects of surviving a death battle between two mutie telepaths.

“Good batch, Millie,” J.B. said, passing her back the canteen.

“Thanks,” she replied, screwing the cap back on the empty container. “I grabbed some things back at Rockpoint to use at the Grandee redoubt. Came in useful sooner than expected.”

Ryan agreed, and the brew had to have even worked on Krysty as her hair started to revive, and soon the woman was limp against him breathing deep and regularly.

“She should be okay,” Mildred said. “Just let her sleep for as long as she wants.”

“Then we get fuck out,” Jak snarled, fixing the sling on his arm.

Ryan fixed the teenager with his one eye. “That loads my blaster,” he agreed. “The sooner we leave the better. Don’t know if I could take surviving another of their mind fights.”

“I wonder if the only reason we’re in this good a condition is because of the hundreds of jumps we’ve made,” Dean said, leaning his back against the brick wall. “Sort of hardened us to getting our brains scrambled.”

“Excuse me,” a new voice said. “What a redoubt?”

Caught by surprise by her sudden appearance, the companions said nothing to the member of the Core standing in the doorway, holding a sagging bundle of horsehide. For a brief moment, Ryan debated chilling the masked girl, but where could they hide the body from people who traveled underground? But something had to be done and quickly. The existence of the redoubts was the greatest secret of the preDark world, and they had no intention of sharing it with anybody.

“This is a redoubt,” Mildred said with a smile. “It means a fort, or a protected place, and this brick wall protects us from the wind.”

“Oh,” she said softly, then added, “My name is Dnal and I have some food for you. May I enter?”

Doc waved her inward. “Come in, child. This is your town after all.”

Hesitantly, she did so. “You are wrong, old one,” Dnal said. “This building has been given to you for your stay. None of the Core are allowed within a spear’s throw.”

“That looks like horsehide,” Dean said. “Are our horses aced?”

“Yes,” the masked girl replied, placing down the bundle. “Their minds could not handle what they saw. We carved them into food and brought the very best to you.”

Unwrapping the flap of hide, J.B. found a stack of thick steaks, the flesh still dripping with fresh blood.

“I thought you folks didn’t eat real food,” Ryan asked.

Dnal turned to face him. “We do not, but the Holy Ones do. They can eat anything, but prefer fresh meat.” Then she untied a small gourd hanging from her rag belt and placed it alongside the pile of meat. “I thought you might like some jinkaja to have in case you change your mind and wish to stay with us.”

Trying to hide his disgust, Ryan’s first impulse was to shoot the container and kick the mutie girl out of the ruins. Gaza had forced the obedience of his people by controlling their water supply; Alar and the Core did the same thing. Either way, it was just another form of slavery, and that was completely unacceptable.

“Thank you,” Ryan said politely. “However, we are still considering the offer.”

“If—” she paused and then rushed forward with the words “—if you’re going to cook the flesh, may I stay and watch? I have never eaten food before.”

Mildred patted the ground nearby, and the girl sat with the effortless grace of a ballerina. The physician wanted a better look at the Core, and this was a prime opportunity.

“First we dig a hole,” Mildred said, drawing her knife, “so the wind doesn’t put out the fire.” And protected within the ruins, nobody should be able to see the flames. Mildred knew Gaza was still somewhere out there. Perhaps he had given up hunting the companions, but maybe not, and it was always wiser to plan on what an enemy can do, instead of what he might do.

The girl watched excitedly while Mildred got to work digging the cooking pit. Meanwhile, the rest of the companions went to check the other buildings, soon coming back with armloads of fuel, wooden tables and chairs and bookshelves to build a respectable fire. Soon the campfire was going, and Mildred roasted the meat well to prevent any parasites from being conveyed to new hosts. The smell was thick and greasy and sent waves of hunger through the companions. Their last meal had been MRE rations, and before that, cold dog stew at the ville.

“By the way,” Ryan asked, turning the steaks with a whittled stick, “ever heard of a norm called the Trader?”

“Yes,” came the surprising reply from the girl, who seemed as fascinated as much by the fire as what it was doing to the slabs of meat. “He is the enemy of our enemy.”

“Ah, Gaza,” Ryan said, taking a shot in the dark. He was local and utterly ruthless. That made him a prime candidate.

Staring into the flames, Dnal nodded. “Yes! He controls scorpions, we worship the Holy Ones. They dislike each other greatly and always battle to the death.”

Well, not always, Ryan thought to himself. But here in the Great Salt it was probably true.

When the meat was dark brown and sizzling with fat drippings, Ryan carved up portions and served them. Using their U.S. Army mess kits, the companions filled the steel plates with juicy steak and started eating. The meat was stringy and difficult to chew, but it filled their stomachs and eased the growing pangs of hunger. That was more than enough for the moment.

Dnal watched their every move as if it was brand-new, and timidly accepted a roasted morsel to nibble on the edges. Through the slit in her bandages the girl had a very human-appearing mouth, tongue and teeth. Of course that meant nothing these days; muties came in every shape and size.

She inspected the food, sniffing at it for a while before taking a tiny nibble, and then popping the rest into her mouth. Chewing experimentally, Dnal almost immediately started to gag. Spitting the half-chewed meat onto the ground, she then grabbed the small gourd and deeply drank the jinkaja to cleanse her mouth.

“Hideous!” Dnal cried, wiping some blue juice from her mouth on the back of the wrappings covering her arms. “It was like consuming hot waste straight from the backside of some animal!”

“Definitely needs more salt,” J.B. said languidly, glancing at the Great Salt desert only yards away from the ruins. If the girl understood the joke, she didn’t find it amusing.

“You okay?” Mildred asked, touching Dnal’s shoulder. The bones under the coverings felt human, as did the muscle play. As far as the physician could tell, this was a perfectly ordinary fifteen-year-old girl. Maybe only the minds of the Core were unique, amplified a millennium into the genetic future of humanity.

Shying away from the steaks spitting on the fire, Dnal nodded vigorously. “I am undamaged,” she said, moving her mouth as if trying to get of the terrible taste. “Merely…wiser now.”

Rising, she started for the open doorway, then turned and paused, pulling a spear into view from where it had been hidden, leaning against the other side of the brick wall.

“I thank you for the hospitality,” Dnal said solemnly, and gave a small bow.

Somehow it reminded Ryan of when they had jumped to Japan and tangled with those samurai and the shogun king. Each bow meant something different to them, and no outsider ever really understood what the gestures fully meant.

“We thank you and your father in return,” Ryan said, giving a even smaller bow from his sitting position.

At that, Dnal tilted her masked head. “How did you know Alar was my father?” she asked quizzically.

Ryan continued eating and said nothing. As if a chief would have sent anybody else but blood kin to palaver with the outlanders visiting the tribe.

“If I may, I would like to ask a question, dear child,” Doc said as casually as possible, patting his greasy mouth clean with a grayish linen handkerchief. “Can we really leave whenever we wish?”

“Of course!” Dnal answered, sounding slightly insulted that the word of the Core should be questioned, especially by meat eaters. “Go anytime, and anywhere.”

Then she turned and pointed. “Except to the south. That is the blessed land, the origin of the Core and none may go except for the leader of the Core. For any others, it means death.”

J.B. shot Ryan a glance, and the Deathlands warrior subtly nodded in agreement. The land to the south was probably radioactive, he thought, glancing at the rad counter on his lapel. But the device indicated that they were in a safe zone. If so, why did the Core mutate into telepaths? Was it the bug juice? Merely another reason never to touch a single drop of the stuff.

“What about those?” Dean asked, waving at the nearby ruins.

“This is where we mine for the metal of our weapons and the clothing that protects us from the sand,” she said. “Explore all you wish, take anything you find.”

Turning on a heel, Dnal started to walk away into the wind, the loose ends of her wrappings jerking with whipcrack snaps. Then over a shoulder she added, “It doesn’t matter what you do. There is no water for a hundred miles. When your thirst is great enough, you will return to drink and join the Core.” As the girl walked, she soon vanished into the darkness and the windblown sand.

“Yeah?” Jak growled, easing the safety back on the blaster in his holster. “Like hell will.”

“Indeed, my taciturn friend,” Doc rumbled, placing aside his mess kit. “I do believe that it would be preferable to put lead in my head then join these antediluvian freaks.”

“How much water do we have?” Dean asked, wiping his hands clean on the sand and then on his pants.

“Three days,” Mildred answered promptly. “Not counting the poisoned stuff we’re saving for an emergency.”

“How far away?” Krysty whispered in a strained voice.

Looking at the stars overhead, J.B. hazarded a guess. He wouldn’t be able to shoot their exact position until the sun rose. “To reach the Grandee?” he said, rubbing his chin, “I’d say about three days on foot. If we move fast and head straight south.”

“Across the forbidden zone?” Dean said, casting a glance over a shoulder at the featureless blackness stretching behind them.

“Yep.”

“Damn,” Mildred murmured unhappily. “We have no choice, then.”

“Agreed. We better cook all of the meat tonight,” Ryan said, returning to his meal. “Gonna need it when we start running for our lives at dawn.”




Chapter Five


The rough brick pressed uncomfortably against Dean’s cheek as he peeked through a crack in the wall. The companions had risen just before dawn and hidden themselves in the maze of old preDark ruins. His father figured that since a lot of large sections of pavement and sidewalk were still lying about, the Core wouldn’t be able to travel through the sand under the dead city and would have to walk on the surface. He proved to be right when Dean spotted a group of the Core eerily rise from the loose sand a hundred yards away and then head for the location that had been their campsite.

Without the horses to carry the heavier supplies, the companions had been forced to abandon a lot of their excess possessions, the saddles for starters, extra blankets, rope tools, some of the roasted meat and most of their spare blasters, along with the large leather bag of poisoned water. His father thought that would make it look as if they were only exploring the nearby ruins for a source of water.

As the companions zigzagged into the crumbling array of structures, Krysty had found a perfect spot where they could watch the campsite and see what the Core did. Shifting his position, Dean heard a sprinkle of crumbling mortar fall to the ground and tightened his grip on the iron framework jutting from the side of the destroyed warehouse. Since he was the lightest and the smallest, Dean got the job of climbing up the smashed building and snuggling into a crack in the wall where he could sit and keep a watch.

Sure enough, a short while after dawn the Core arrived. The masked beings came in force and marched straight into the camp. Now they were going through the abandoned items of the companions, inspecting the saddles and tossing bits of spare wood onto the campfire to watch them smolder, then burst into flames. Only one Core member stood by itself—man or woman, it was impossible to tell with the thick wrappings—and surveyed the campsite critically, turning over small items with a spear. Squinting to try to see better, Dean could only guess that it was Alar from the respectful way the others acted. Then the leader of the Core pulled out a small vial from within its rags and the rest got busy.

Sons of bitches! Dean thought. So that was the plan, eh? Wiggling free of the crevice, he walked along the tilted floor until coming to a large hole, then jumped through, falling a few feet down to the next level and running along a stronger concrete floor until coming to the ragged end of the building. This entire side of the warehouse was gone, sheered and crumbling into the desert sands. However, a large dune was piled high against the outer walls and Dean skipped down the slope, using speed to stay ahead of the loose sand disturbed by his passage.

Near the bottom, Dean jumped clear of some rocks and landed on his boots near Ryan. His father had been standing guard with his longblaster at hand, ready to give cover fire if the Core spotted Dean. At the noise of his landing, the others came out from behind the rusted shell of a locomotive engine, weeds growing between the wheels, and a buzzard’s nest cresting the long cold smokestack.

“Well?” his father demanded.

The boy nodded. “You got it, Dad. They come with the first light, poked around our stuff some, then poured that damn jinkaja stuff on the leftover horse meat and in the water bottle.”

“Our own free will, my ass,” Krysty snorted. She had spent a bad night fighting the demons in her memory, but the training she had received from her mother pulled her through and she had the nightmares under control. Mostly, anyway. But if the hammer fell, she was going to blow away Alar with the first round. That perverted twist was never going to be allowed access to her mind again.

“Yeah, thought so,” Ryan said through clenched teeth. “I don’t care if that bug juice grew me back an eye, if they catch one of us, best to do a mercy chilling rather than take a drink.”

“Having to ace one of our own. Dark night!” J.B. swore.

Keeping a watch on their nest, a flock of buzzards circled high about in the cloudless sky, the morning sun already feeling ten times hotter than it did the previous day. Drawing his blaster, Ryan jacked a round from the ejector and rubbed the oily cartridge on his lips to help ease the growing thirst.

“Let’s move out,” he said gruffly, dropping the clip to thumb the round back in with the others. “Stay close and quiet, two-yard spread. Dean, keep that crossbow ready, Doc your sword and Jak a throwing blade. Use blasters only as a last resort. Any noise could put us in a world of hurt.”

Nobody commented on the orders, as they had done such things before many times. Darting from one pile of bricks to the next, the companions stayed low and fast, keeping to the sidewalks, pieces of pavement and fallen walls for as much as possible until a few hours later they finally had reached the southern edge of the ruins. Twice along the way they discovered a hidden scorpion, and once a huge millipede. Each time, Dean tracked the muties with his crossbow, but they left the creatures alive. A fresh kill would only attract the buzzards, which could in turn summon the Core.

Now flat, open sand stretched before them, with only some angled dunes rising low on the horizon. The air still carried the sharp tang of salt, and it mixed unpleasantly with the faint stink of the rancid sweat of the companions clothing.

Placing a hand to his forehead to block the bright sunlight, Ryan studied the ground, but there were no more chucks of concrete to use to hide their tracks, not even rocks. From here they had to walk on the bare sand, even though it was the home for the Core.

“Make sure you don’t fragging walk in unison,” he ordered brusquely. “Stop every few yards and pat your boots softly as if it they were hot. These muties can probably hear things from underground and we gotta sound like animals. If they detect marching, they’ll come in force.”

“Especially with the direction we’re taking,” Mildred added, using a cloth to tie back her riot of beaded hair. “I just hope the land to the south actually really is forbidden for them to travel.”

“Only one way to find out,” Dean stated, wiping his neck with a pocket rag. “Once there, we might be safe from attack.”

“If they come, spread out in a circle, not a pack,” J.B. directed, checking the ammo clip in his Uzi machine pistol. “They’ll be striking from underneath, so we need room to track and fire. We bunch up, and we all buy the farm.”

“No prob,” Krysty said, then added, “And if anybody has to piss, do it on your boot to break the force of the stream.”

Testing the point of his Spanish sword on a thumb, Doc chuckled softly at that remark.

“What?” the redhead demanded.

“I beg your pardon for my uncouth laughter, dear lady,” Doc said, sheathing the sword back into the ebony stick. “It had simply occurred to me that if anybody from my time had uttered such a sentence in polite society, men would have gasped, ladies fainted, children screamed, then probably been arrested and hauled off to jail.”

“So nobody pissed back then, eh?” Krysty asked in a teasing manner, resting a fist on her hip.

Doc feigned horror. “Not and admitted to such an action, no, madam. Never! It was unthinkable.”

“And still want go back?” Jak asked, arching a snow-white eyebrow.

“To be with my wife again, yes. But there were many good points, too, Mr. Lauren. Clean beds, hot meals and no muties.” He shrugged. “But no place is perfect. Sadly for us all, there is no Shangri-La, and Brigadoon does not exist.”

“But there are a lot better shitholes than this place,” Ryan said bluntly, tightening the straps on his backpack. It was bastard heavy, but he had added a third belt that went around his hip to help distribute the weight. Hip straps, the pinnacle of preDark science.

“And worse, too,” Ryan continued. “You know that for a fact, Doc. We found you in Mocsin, and you’ve been to Front Royal, which is paradise on Earth in comparison.”

Every trace of humor drained away from his features as Doc recalled the horrors done to him in that truly evil town. “Truth indeed, old friend. I shall forever be in Trader’s debt for what he did to Mocsin.”

“Yeah, Trader cleaned out that pesthole,” J.B. added, setting the brim of his fedora against the sun. “And he’ll do the same to the Core once we link up with him.”

Pressing her canteen to a cheek, Krysty savored the coolness trying to ease her thirst without taking a drink. It was too soon to have another sip, and sucking a pebble wasn’t helping much today. “If it is the Trader,” Krysty countered, forcing herself to lower the water container.

“It’s him,” Ryan stated with conviction, stepping onto the hot sand and starting forward at a broad gait. “Nobody else can make so many folks so pissed off at same time.”

The brief rest break over, the companions broke ranks and spread out in a ragged line across the burning sand, the tiny salt crystals crunching underneath their boots. As the day wore on, the weary travelers stopped talking, almost ceased to think, trying to concentrate solely on placing one foot ahead of other, then break the pattern with a pause and shuffle. Sweat ran down their faces, soaking their armpits, their backs roasted dry from the blazing sun. Each tried to ignore the chafing of their backpacks and their growing thirst, savoring a delicious vision of the cool of the Grandee.

The day wore on in mindless drudgery as the companions went up and down sand dunes like driftwood riding the ocean waves. Occasionally, they would walk across black weeds to muffle their steps. Curiously, they were finding more and more local plant life, some real grass mixed in with the weeds, and a few real cacti dotting the barren landscape. While the rest kept him covered, Doc prodded the first cactus with his sword to make sure it was only a plant, and when nothing happened, the man happily cut off chunks. Badly dehydrated, the people greedily sucked the spongy pulp for every drop of sweet moisture, then very carefully placed the rinds on sloping dunes to roll far away and hide in which direction they were going. The dry wind was efficiently filling their footsteps, and even Jak wasn’t sure that he could have followed anybody into the heart of the desolate land.

Refreshed from the cactus juice, the companions kept moving. The heat of the sun seeped into their bones and made their blasters almost too hot to touch with bare hands, so socks were wrapped around the grips for protection. Then Dean had to unlock his crossbow out of fear the string would break. On they moved, like cyborgs on a programmed task, heedless of anything around them, seeing only the ground before their feet.

Less than a mile later, Ryan whistled softly as he found some more cacti. But the welcome sight turned bitter when it was discovered the plant was really a Drinker, the bones of its victims lying in plain sight.

Traveling up a gentle slope, the companions took a short break and allowed themselves a single capful of warm water.

“And take some salt,” Ryan directed, grimacing at the thought.

Opening a few MRE packs, they shared the little envelopes of iodized powder. It was unpleasant, but vitally necessary. Their clothing was becoming stiff from the salt they lost by sweating so much. If it wasn’t replaced, soon they would get weak, then sleepy and eventually die. Water was all a person wanted in the desert, but salt helped keep a person alive.

Pulling out his minisextant, J.B. took a reading on the sun.

“Nowhere,” he announced, returning the minisextant under his stiff shirt, salt residue marking a white band across the material. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and heading for abso-fragging-lutely nothing.”

“I could have told that,” Jak muttered, brushing his snowy hair forward to help shade his pale face from the painful sunlight.

As they stood on the crested ridge, ahead of them stretched an impossibly flat land utterly devoid of any features whatsoever. Not even a rock or a tumbleweed was in sight. Yet thick tufts of weeds and some sort of bracken lay thick along the very top of the break, almost as if marking the line of transition between the desert and the flatlands.

“E. A. Abbott, beware,” Doc muttered in wry humor.

“Yeah,” Mildred said, thoughtfully chewing the inside of her cheek. She recognized the reference to the 1886 fantasy novel about two-dimensional creatures discovering the 3-D world. “But this is almost too flat. Seems artificial somehow.”

“Rad counter reads clean,” Ryan said, aiming the lapel pin about in a slow arc for a full scan.

Pulling a compass out of his jacket, J.B. tapped the device with a fingertip. “No mag fields, either.”

“Salt-fall,” Jak said simply, as if that explained everything.

“Makes sense,” Krysty agreed. When the nukes were coming down everywhere during skydark, quite a few of the bombs and missiles missed their coastal targets and hit in the ocean. The thermonuclear detonations created boiling tidal waves that washed inland for miles, forming flat, featureless vistas very similar to this. Yes, that seemed reasonable. This was merely a carpet of dried salt covering the desert underneath.

Stepping down from the embankment, Mildred tested her weight on the salt, then jumped a few times. Unlike the desert sand, this material neither yielded nor cracked in any way.

“Solid as rock,” Ryan declared. “Just stay razor, and go around any domes.” Often when a salt-fall hit, there were pockets of air trapped underneath, forming low domes that would crack apart when walked upon and send a person falling for yards. Ryan never heard of anybody getting aced by a salt dome, but there was always a first time. Besides, sometimes the domes were inhabited. Mebbe that was where the Core lived, in a big dome somewhere.

“In plain sight miles,” Jak complained sullenly, flexing his hand. A blade slipped from his sleeve at the gesture, and he absentmindedly tucked it away again. “Not like that.”

“But we’ll make better time,” Krysty countered.

“Besides that,” Dean added, “if we’re in view, then anybody coming after us is, too.”

Smearing a dab of axle grease from the satchel on her chapped lips, Mildred watched as Doc winced, flexing his shoulders. Jak took his bad arm out of the sling and flexed it a few times to help the circulation and keep the limb from going stiff.

“How’s the back?” she asked, tucking away the tube of grease.

“Itches like the dickens,” Doc said, gently making a fist.

“Good. That means it’s healing.”

Furrowing his brow, Doc merely grunted in reply. Pain was part of life. When it stopped, they buried you.

Climbing down the embankment, the companions started across the flatland and found the walking much less tiring with a hard surface underfoot. As their speed increased, spirits rose. The sun was past azimuth now and the day was ebbing. Soon it would begin to get cool, and they were making good time. Even if the Core knew where they were now, it would be impossible for them to strike from below through the hard plain.

Everywhere around the companions the ground sparkled with hidden diamonds, salt crystals sometimes as large as a fist. Dean found some rusted bits of unidentifiable metal embedded in the hard ground. At a distance Mildred spotted a half-buried car tire arching up like a crochet hoop, then J.B. tripped and fell to the sound of shattering glass. Getting off the ground, the Armorer knelt again to see what he had broken.

“Nuke me, it’s plastic,” he said, running a hand across the satiny smooth material. “With neon lights lining the edge. I must have stepped on an intact bulb. I’d say it was some kind of a big electric sign.”

“Could be an entire building buried under this,” Krysty said in amazement.

“If it happened fast enough, then most of the place would be in good condition,” Mildred said excitedly. Salt was a good preservative. One of the best. “Machinery, clothing, and all we have to do is dig.”

“Yeah, for about a month, with our bare hands in sunlight hot enough to ignite ammo,” Dean said scowling, hitching the heavy crossbow on his back. “No, thanks.”

The crossbow was becoming a real burden to the boy, as the heavy weapon kept hitting him in the kidney, and he was giving serious thought to dumping the crossbow and quiver. A blaster and clips weighed a lot less, and required less maintenance, too.

“J.B., mark it on your map,” Ryan directed. “Mebbe the Trader would be interested. But for right now, pulling air into our lungs is my main concern. Keep walking. We rest at night.”

Stepping over the buried sign, J.B. turned away and started walking when there was a crackling sound and his leg went into the ground all the way to the knee. Panic hit the man, and as he tried to yank the limb free, cracks spread outward from the small hole with more pieces of the white ground falling away to enlarge the opening with frightening speed. Suddenly coming loose, J.B. attempted to dive away from the expanding gap, but not fast enough, and he fell into the blackness below.

“John!” Mildred screamed, reaching for the man.

Throwing himself forward, Ryan hit the cracking ground and thrust out a hand to try to grab his friend, even though he knew it was totally hopeless. Incredibly, Ryan touched cloth and he grabbed the back of the wiry man’s jacket in an iron grip. Then the Armorer stood, the top of his hat only inches below the salty plain.

“Good Lord!” Doc rumbled, taking a half step forward.

In the afternoon light angling into the crevice, the companions could see that J.B. was standing on the roof of a preDark building with a rotary ventilation fan nearby. The unit was normally on top of skyscrapers to use the natural force of the wind to drive fresh air deep into the immense structures. The plastic J.B. had stepped on could now be seen as part of a rooftop billboard, the faded picture advertising some vid about a flying war wag covered with scantily clad women. The colors were faded, but otherwise the sign was in perfect condition. Beyond the edge of the roof, was stygian darkness as impenetrable as outer space.

“Only fell five feet,” J.B. said with a shaky laugh. “Damn near thought I was taking the long ride.”

“Climb onto the billboard,” Ryan told him. “I can hoist you up from there.”

But before the Armorer could move, a faint vibration shook the entire desert, and a hundred tiny puffs of dust rose from different locations across the flatland. Now a horrible stench welled from below, increasing as the cracks began to widen. Visibly, the salt-fall was shifting position, huge sections rising and falling slightly, with a crackling sound that steadily got louder.

“Oh, Christ, the pressure dropped!” Mildred cursed, in sudden realization. “When we broke the crust, it let out the ancient gases supporting the dome. Like popping a balloon! The whole salt land is starting to collapse!”

Ryan started to speak when a hundred feet away a huge section of the sparkling white ground shook and plummeted out of sight.

“Get on the roof!” the man ordered, jumping into the hole. He landed hard, sprawling near the ventilation fan. A foot to the left, and he would have been gutted by the salt-encrusted blades.

The others were only a heartbeat behind, the white landscape crumbling under their boots. Now the crackling noise seemed to fill the world and the entire area began to quake, thin cracks shooting in every direction. Then the cracks yawned wide and the white dome broke apart completely, huge pieces of the landscape tilting sideways to expose the underside crystalline deposits, bits of fish and seaweed clinging to the irregular bottom. Coming loose, myriad pieces dropped into the reeking hurricane from below, and the crackling grew into a strident roar that steadily increased in volume and power until the companions were forced to cover their ears.

Rancid winds buffeted them from every direction, and the building violently shook, the stone and steel groaning as if in pain. It was as if the world were dying. The tempest was worse than any earthquake they had encountered, louder and more violent than the eruption of a South Seas volcano. Almost as if skydark had returned to finish the job of destroying the scourge of humanity.

Now billowing clouds of pulverized salt rose over the edge of the building, covering them in a sparkling blizzard. Desperately, the companions clenched their eyes shut, while the thunder of destruction rattled their bones from its sheer force. With the sound of splintering wood, the stout supports of the billboard crumpled, and it came hurtling down to slam onto the roof, missing the huddled friends by only a few feet. Lost in the tumultuous noise and hurricane winds, the companions never even noticed.

Now there came another exhalation of fetid gas. Pulling the collars of their shirts over their faces, Ryan and the others fought not to vomit, knowing that to open their mouths now would mean death from whirlwind of flying salt.




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