Axler, James - Deathlands 64 - Bloodfire Read online

  Thankfully, the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, hiding the smell and sound of the engines from the hated muties. This was the best chance he would ever have to end their foul race.

  "Load 'em up!" Gaza shouted, throwing the war wag into a higher gear. "We're going in hot and hard!"

  Allison strapped herself into the gunner's chair, and then released the ropes holding the .50-cal out of the way of the two people at the front of the vehicle. Expertly, she checked the linked ammo, making sure there were no kinks to tangle and jam the blaster, then she worked the arming bolt and took a few practice swings of the heavy blaster, testing its speed. The woman could feel the waves of rage from the Core, the pictures in their minds a visual tapestry hanging just below the subconscious level. The desert warriors were almost insane with anger and that was good. It would make them foolhardy, prone to taking unnecessary risks. An angry enemy was a weak enemy.

  In the rear, Delia awkwardly climbed the half step into the turret and prepared the 25 mm cannon.

  "Short bursts only at group targets!" Gaza shouted at her, looking in the corner mirror. "That's all the shells we got, and we're going to need every damn one to face the Trader!"

  The tall brunette thumped the metal chassis with a fist to let her husband know she understood the gravity of the situation, then she pulled out a .45 Ruger Blackhawk revolver from her holster and tucked it in the front of her belt for a faster draw.

  All of the others were doing the same with their rapidfires, stuffing spare ammo clips into belts, and working the arming bolts on their Kalashnikovs, M-16s and MAC-10 machine pistols.

  The engine of the LAV 25 sounded deafening to Gaza as he tried to force the war wag to greater speed, but it got within a hundred yards of the Core before the last person in the group spun and shouted the alarm.

  Instantly, Allison racked the group with the fifty, bodies tumbling in every direction from the brutal hammering of the heavy combat rounds. Now the rapidfires began spitting flame from both sides of the APC, and a full dozen of the Core died from the barrage before the rest even realized what was happening.

  Spinning with a snarl, Alar simply stood in the open ground, holding his spear. As Gaza headed straight for the male, he suddenly felt dizzy then cried out as a giant millipede appeared from behind a sand dune, the black insect larger than a preDark tank!

  The baron cried out in terror and threw the steering hard to the left to escape the slavering jaws of the colossal beast. Releasing the fifty, Allison touched his temples and the vision faded away to show nothing before the APC but empty desert, and the rapidly approaching edge of the cliff.

  It had been a damn illusion! Dangerously close to the edge, the preDark city rising into view, Gaza slammed on the brakes and threw the transmission into reverse, the gears grinding loudly as the machine fought its own momentum. The loose sand under the tires slithered away, and the APC continued forward toward the yawning abyss. Trying to regain control, Gaza stomped on the gas, and the big Detroit diesel roared with full power. Only fifty feet away from the edge, Gaza engaged the emergency brake and banked even harder, throwing his weight onto the yoke until he thought it might break. With half the wheels jammed motionless, the LAV 25 went sideways and continued sliding toward certain doom. Then Gaza released the brakes, the rear tires caught traction and the vehicle lurched ahead a few yards. Yes! Fighting for every foot of the way, the baron alternately worked the yoke and brakes and gas, finally bringing the war wag onto the desert proper.

  "Chill 'em all!" he screamed, spittle hitting the controls.

  Instantly, every weapon in the APC cut loose, hot lead chewing up the dunes as the Core rallied behind Alar. What the hell? Why would they give a group target to the rapidfires? Then the leader of the Core vanished from sight as a duplicate APC came around a dune to barrel straight for Gaza on a collision course and a fire breathing millipede rose from under the sand to their left.

  Ignoring the mind tricks, the baron spun the LAV 25 hard and headed for the empty stretch of desert. He remembered a dune being there a moment ago, which was probably where the damn muties were going to escape his blasters.

  "Delia, shoot the sky!" he yelled as spears hit the APC from nowhere, the points shattering as they came through the air vents, throwing razor sharp slivers of steel everywhere like shrapnel.

  Dropping her AK-47, Victoria cried out and fell to the deck with a length of steel completely piercing her throat, blood squirting out from the severed arteries.

  Exhaling a guttural scream, Delia cut loose the 25 mm cannon and turned in a full circle. The sand exploded everywhere, and swaddled bodies fell from the clear sky to land in gory pieces on the hot sand.

  Suddenly, the rest of the Core became visible once more as they ran from the edge of the cliff where the heavy APC dared not go again. As Gaza leaned forward to urge the machine onto greater speed, he and Alar locked eyes for a long heartbeat as the leader of the Core fumbled to pull a gren from within his cloth rags. The APC hit the man, and he folded completely over the prow before flying. He was still airborne when the gren detonated in a blinding flash, a searing fireball expanding above the city, waves of flame stabbing outward from the miniature sun violently brought into creation.

  His heart pounding, Gaza watched as the fireball thinned away on the wind of its detonation. That had been a thermite gren! The mil antitank charge would have blanketed the APC in chem flames hotter than a thousand Molotovs and roasted them alive. Alar had to have been saving that just for Gaza, but he used it one split second too late.

  Unexpectedly, more spears hit the war wag, and as the rear women shot wildly, Allison frowned in concentration and then swept the nearby sand with the forward fifty to expose the underground members of the Core with bloody geysers as each round found living flesh. Literally torn to pieces, the broken bodies rolled along the desert, leaving a crimson trail as they went straight over the cliff and joined their aced leader on the last train west.

  Braking to a halt, Gaza panted behind the steering yoke, glancing about in every direction, trying to find new targets. But the desert seemed to be empty.

  "Another trick?" he demanded, looking to his right.

  Allison shook her head and waved a hand in a slicing motion, explaining that everybody was chilled.

  "Let's just make sure," Gaza growled, turning off the engine and grabbing a rapidfire before exiting the vehicle.

  The sand swirled around his hand tooled leather boots as the man did a recce outside the LAV 25, checking the bodies of the slain. Most of the Core were obviously chilled, with limbs gone, or steaming holes in their chests from an explosive 25 mm shell. Resting the stock of his blaster on a hip, Gaza sneered at the sight. He was preparing to conquer the world, and a bunch of sand muties thought they could challenge him? The feebs deserved to die twice for such arrogance.

  Joining him on the churned sand, his wives proceeded to loot the bodies of the fallen, finding a few blasters and another gren. Also several bags of jinkaja . Those they tossed away in disgust, and wiped their hands clean afterward as if the addictive juice were rank sewage.

  Watching them work, Gaza was pleased. His wives knew their jobs well. He should have cut out the tongues of every slut in the ville and had an army of women. By the nukestorm, there was a good idea. A female army with him the only stud!

  Chuckling at the notion, the baron went to the front of the APC and inspected the gory streaks left behind from the Core leader. The bloody rags partially hid the scorch marks received from blasting out of Rockpoint. Pity the ville no longer existed. He would have dearly loved to return and level the hellhole until rivers of blood flowed. But it wasn't to be. Pity.

  A low boom of an explosion echoed from the nearby preDark city, and Gaza walked to the very edge of the cliff to look down upon the buildings with conflicting expressions. This would be his new home. Canned food for the rest of their lives, preDark liquor, machines and more blasters than could be counted. An empire to challenge t
he preDark days. Nobody could stand before him then, not the Trader or Ryan. Now his death should be something special. Hawk had known many things, and the baron learned the important tricks before killing the man. There was a way to torture a victim for weeks, without blood loss, and keeping him or her conscious without even the sweet release of fainting. Eventually the victim would go insane, but that was half the fun.

  A low moan came on the breeze, and Gaza spun with his blaster leveled. The silence lay thick on the battlefield, with only the ticking of the hot APC engine cooling to disturb the peace.

  "One of them is faking," the baron said loudly. "Find him and let's get some answers!"

  Quickly, his wives searched the bodies, using knives to stab any corpse not blown to pieces. Then one small body drenched in blood and entrails jerked at the touch of the blade and the women descended in force, pinning the Core mutie and tying his hands across his back and looping a second rope around his neck. Any attempt to get loose would only cause the prisoner to strangle himself.

  Walking over to the masked being, Gaza kicked it hard in the belly, and the desert warrior doubled over, heaving for breath. The prisoner was small in height and build, certainly no older than a teenager. Not that it mattered for very long. Alar had died much too soon. This mutie wouldn't share his good luck.

  Pulling a stiletto from his boots, Gaza turned the blade about in the bright sunlight, the needle tip gleaming evilly. The sand mutie jerked his head forward, to stare at him with blazing violet eyes. Cold fear filled the man's belly for a moment, but when nothing happened Gaza broke into laughter and the captive slumped with defeat.

  "Can't send mind monsters alone, eh?" Gaza sneered and the captive slumped in resignation.

  "Trapped, alone and helpless. But you have spirit. I respect that. Tell me about the underground city and your death will be swift and painless."

  The prisoner continued to stare at the sand and said nothing.

  Furiously, Gaza backhanded the being across the face, sending him sprawling. As the captive tried to rise, the ropes tightened and started choking him to death. Moving quickly, Allison and Kathleen grabbed the prisoner and hauled him upright where he gasped for breath wheezing from the effort.

  "Is there any way down to the city?" Gaza demanded, walking around the being.

  After a long pause, the Core soldier shook his head.

  "Still stubborn. You must be kin to your baron."

  The masked being remained mute, tilting his head slightly, but the violet eyes were full of confusion.

  "The child of your leader, Alar," the baron explained impatiently.

  Dumbly, the captive nodded and the front bandages became damp below the strange eyes.

  Tears? Gaza was shocked at that. Nothing on earth cried but norms. "Remove the bandages!" the baron commanded, yanking off his sunglasses. "I want to see his face!"

  The captive fought hard, but Allison got him in a hammerlock and pinned helpless as the others roughly used knives to cut away the layers of bandages, uncaring of any damage inflicted. Victoria lay dead in the APC from the spears of the savages, and the other wives no longer considered the captive a living being. It was merely a thing to be handle in any manner their husband decreed.

  A small nose came first, then ears, and full lips, then oval eyes of deep violet and finally long blond hair the color of the moon. Gaza was delighted at the sight of the female. All the better for revenge. Reaching down, he rubbed her chest and felt the presence of breasts, large and soft.

  "All of it," the baron said excitedly, feeling his lust rise. "Strip her to the skin."

  The girl struggled, but the women had assisted in such things before and soon the captive was stark naked before the baron, cringing in shame as she tried to hide herself with one arm across her full breasts, the other between her legs. Her skin was bluish in color, and the man thought she might be a mutie after all, but then he realized it was just from the total lack of sun ever reaching her flesh for a lifetime.

  "Magnificent." Gaza chuckled as he walked around the young female. "And human in every way."

  "P-please," a new voice said.

  Gaza spun at that to see the girl shivering. Ah, she was freezing in the desert heat. Her body was unable to handle the lack of bandages.

  "What is your name?" he demanded, taking her by the jaw.

  "Sh-shala," she stammered, and had to say the name several times before he comprehended.

  "Shala. Such a pretty name," the baron purred, running a hand through her blond hair, then grabbed a fistful and forced her to face him directly. Her eyes were beautiful and filled with sorrow. It was a devastating combination, and her fate was sealed on the spot.

  "You belong to me now, girl," Gaza snarled. "Understand?"

  Fighting back more tears, she nodded, prepared to try to die with honor as a warrior of the Core.

  Releasing her hair, Gaza slapped her face hard, then cupped both breasts, the delicious weight filling his palms and sending warmth to his groin.

  "Prepare my new bride," Gaza snapped, releasing the teenager and starting to remove his own clothing. "I can think of no better place for a honeymoon than the field where her race died. We'll talk tomorrow about how to reach the city below."

  Crying out in terror, Shala tried to get away as the women converged on her with ropes. But soon she was bound helpless. Then she started to scream when they brought out pliers and a straight razor, the wives of the baron grinning to display their lack of a tongue.

  The horrible noises mounted until they echoed among the concrete canyons of the preserved metropolis, then suddenly and horribly were cut short.

  Chapter Nine

  "Are you sure the mushroom cloud was in this direction?" the Trader asked, scanning the horizon with a pair of preDark binocs.

  Her battered Stetson was tilted back to accommodate the longeyes, its single eagle feather fluttering in the breeze. A bandolier of grens stretched across the swell of her breasts, and a boxy 9 mm Ingram machine pistol hung at her side, with an ammo belt of spare clips around a trim waist. Riding on her left hip was a hand comm unit, turned off at the moment. But ever since Hellsgate she always traveled with the radio link.

  "Yes, this is it," Roberto said gruffly, checking the cracked compass in his right hand. "North by northeast. I marked the dial just to be sure."

  "Doesn't look like any nuke damage that way," the Trader said, resting a boot on a large rock and leaning forward.

  Closing the lid on the compass, the man snorted. "Never said it was a nuke, just a nuke-shaped cloud."

  The Trader gave no reply as she continued to scan the horizon. The rad counters were reading clean, but she sure as shit wasn't taking her convoy into a possible hot zone without doing a recce first. Any triple-large explosion formed a mushroom cloud; she had learned that long ago. However, any blast that size always meant local fighting and to just roll on in could get all of them chilled and triple quick.

  The blond woman stood tall to the others in her group, especially in these lean days with so many starving. Her clothing was simple, just denims and a heavy white shirt, the shirt worn more to impress folks than anything else, since clean clothing was only a legend in most parts of the Deathlands these days.

  Turning her head to scan the horizon, the tanned skin tightened on her neck to expose a thin scar that went almost completely around her throat, a memento from where a rogue coldheart tried to ace her from behind, and failed. One of the fingers on her right hand was oddly bent, a bone break that never healed properly, and on the back of her left wrist was a large puckered area where a stickie had grabbed her with a sucker. Caught reloading, Kate dropped her empty blaster and used a knife to gut the mutie, slicing it open from belly to chin while the creature was still attached to her wrist. The sucker came off as the stickie died, but the skin was permanently damaged. But that was a trade she would make any damn day— a life for some skin.

  There were more scars, some badges of honor saving a fri
end, others dark memories of when she was a slave. Whip marks and brands that only her bed partners saw for a brief moment before the candles were extinguished.

  "Looks clear," Kate said, lowering the binocs to tuck a loose strand of hair behind an ear. The woman wore her pale hair tied off in a ponytail with a piece of rawhide to keep it out of her face. She wore no jewelry of any kind, although there was a junk box full of the stuff in War Wag One, items for trade at the various villes they encountered. The pretty baubles were sure to catch the eye of a baron's woman.

  "But that don't mean shit this close to the Core," Roberto stated, checking the load in the sawed-off shotgun that he used as a handcannon.

  Clicking the breech shut, he slipped the blaster into the low holster strapped to his thigh. At that height, his right hand hung exactly alongside the grip of the deadly blaster. Fat, greasy shells filled the loops of his wide belt, and a long curved knife was tucked into a sheath at the small of his back. Among his many jobs in the convoy, the first and most important was to watch the Trader's back. Some feebs thought he loved the woman, but it was much more than that, more than friendship, a deeper emotion based on respect. Recruiting him from a brutal ville, the woman had given him back a measure of self-pride, and that meant more to the man than any fleeting tug of the heart or sweaty roll in the hay. Twice so far he had stepped in the way of lead flying her way, and would do so again without hesitation. The day she crossed the dark river, he would follow her into hell to help plan the escape.

  Placing the binocs aside, the frowning Trader pulled out the hand comm and thumbed the transmit switch. "Jake, it's me," she said. "Anything on radar?"

  "All clear, Chief," a man answered over the comm, his voice oddly free of the usual distortion.

  "Roger," she replied in old mil lingo. The woman knew that this kind of clear reception was only possible within a hundred feet of War Wag One; after that it got worse with every step taken. But with all of the crap still in the atmosphere from the nukecaust, even the most powerful radio could only broadcast for a few miles in ideal conditions. The military handheld radio the Trader carried had a shorter range than a mile, but still gave her a vital link to every wag at the same time in a firefight. The radios helped turn five wags into a single unit, which closed like a fist around an enemy to crush them with a coordinated strike.