Axler, James - Deathlands 63 - Devil Riders Page 21

  "I'm fine, woman," Baron Gaza said, gritting his teeth from the pain. "Hawk is coming, and Darvis has been with me for a decade."

  There were powders, even jolt to ease the pain, but those clouded the mind and Gaza needed to stay sharp. This Ryan was a tricky bastard, worthy of being a baron himself. Walked right in the gaudy house used by his officers to buy a meal. That took some major balls, or a hot steaming ton of stupidity.

  Reluctantly, the women departed to do his will, taking the guards from the room, their steps echoing along the stone corridors until out of range.

  Outside, there came the snarl of a cougar and the scream of dying men.

  "Ouch! Careful, fool," Gaza muttered, turning on the healer. "Just because we're alone for a minute doesn't mean you can start rushing the job. That hurt!"

  Then the baron stopped talking as he felt sharp steel pressing hard to his throat, the body of the healer warm against his back.

  "Did you think I would forget, or forgive?" the wrinklie wheezed, forcing the knife harder into the flesh until a thin line of blood formed along the blade. "You took my daughter screaming to your bed, then sold her to the Devils as a gaudy slut when she didn't bear you a child."

  "Please, no," Gaza begged, reaching for his blaster only to find the holster empty. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the weapon laying on the table near the roast. When had the wrinklie taken the blaster?

  "Let me live," the baron pleaded. "I'll give you anything you want. Horses, women, blasters! Anything you desire!"

  Sliding the blade along the soft skin cutting new avenues of crimson, Darvis leaned in close and breathed on the baron's ear, sending chills down his spine.

  "Anything?" the healer asked mockingly.

  "Name it!" Gaza whispered pitifully. "Take my own wives!"

  "Now that is a deal, my lord. What I desire," the healer growled, spittle striking the cheek of the trembling baron, "is to piss on your fucking grave!"

  The knife started to cut in then for real, and Gaza screamed in terror when a blaster roared and something slapped against the baron with a wet sound, blood, hair and bits of flesh spraying onto the floor.

  Staggering to his feet, Gaza saw Hawk walking in from the doorway, his blaster firing again and again into the limp body of the whitehair.

  "Damn traitor, good thing I arrived when I did," Hawk said, kicking the dead man to make sure the job was finished. "Are you okay, my lord?"

  "Th-thank you for saving my life," Gaza stammered, running his hands over his face, the fingers coming away streaked with pinkish brains and a sticky clear fluid. "Nuking hell, this is such a waste! It really is."

  "He wasn't that good a healer, my lord," Hawk said, cracking open the cylinder and dumping the spent shells into a pocket for reloading.

  Unexpectedly, there came the clockwork noise of a hammer being locked into the firing position from the dining table.

  "Not him, you. You are the waste," Gaza said softly and fired.

  Hawk felt a searing white-hot pain in his chest and staggered from the blow, his weapon falling from numb hands. The baron fired once more, driving Hawk backward, and the man went out the window with a startled cry.

  "Did you really think I would let anybody know I had begged a wrinklie for my life?" Gaza growled at the empty window, massaging his throat. "The healer may have been insane, but you were a fool, old friend."

  "Such a waste," Gaza repeated, holstering his piece and shuffling from the room, holding his aching side. He still needed that wound stitched shut. This time he'd have the wives do the job. At least they could be trusted.

  MOVING FAST, Ryan fired the Steyr without aiming, and the wall guard dropped the implo gren from his hand, the shattered wrist pumping blood from both sides.

  A split second later there was a blinding flash, and the entire wall seemed to shake as wide cracks spread out like lightning bolts, making bricks tumble off.

  Dust clouds rolled from the vibrating barrier, the horses rearing and whinnying in fright. Seizing the reins, the companions fought to stay on their mounts and the rumbles dissipated through the side street, rattling window shutters and shattering clay pots. As the aftereffects of the implosion slowly faded, Ryan could now see there was a gaping hole in the thick barrier reaching all the way through, only some glassy rubble covering the few yards of ground to the black desert outside.

  "Walk them through," Ryan said, sliding off the horse and leading it through the dangerous wreckage. If the animals broke a leg at this point, the escape was finished before it began.

  Everywhere on the streets, people were screaming, blasters firing, horses screaming.

  "They're coming through!" a sec man screamed on the wall, his shaking hands dropping cartridges as he tried to load a scattergun.

  Coming through? The feebs thought it was an invasion, not an escape, which gave J.B. an idea. While the others started traversing the littered passage, the Armorer rode to the mouth of the side street and tossed the last box of .22 cartridges into a burning pile of cloth where the canopy had collapsed. As he raced back to join the others, the bullets started cooking off, lead banging in every direction.

  "Coldhearts are in the ville!" J.B. bellowed at the top of his lungs through cupped hands. "Cannies and muties at the front gate! Protect the keep!"

  Incredibly, the cry was repeated by others and carried along. Soon the sec men on top of the gatehouse started shooting into the billowing smoke in mindless panic.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the companions had reached the desert past the wall, only to discover outriders pounding toward the breach. Climbing on their horses, Ryan and the others peppered the enemy riders with blasterfire as the sec men on the wall started shooting crossbow arrows, the deadly hum of the barbed bolts chilling as they thudded deep into the sand.

  Caught in the cross fire, the companions had no choice but to leave and kicked their mounts into action, sprinting for the safety of the night.

  "We can't abandon, John!" Mildred yelled, moving to the motion of her mount.

  "Not going to! Just drawing away their fire!" Ryan answered, clicking on the nukelamp.

  THE MEN on the wall shouted in surprise at the blinding beam, and Ryan leaned far over in the saddle and dropped the lamp on the sand as the companions kept galloping away. Thinking the outlanders had stupidly made a stand, the guards concentrated their weapons on the nukelamp until it was hit and darkness returned to the desert.

  Already at the breach, J.B. started walking his horse through as fast as possible, when it tripped and caught a leg on a jagged pile of debris. Diving out of the way, J.B. just missed being crushed by the animal as it went tumbling. Scrambling to his feet, the Armorer saw the animal was crippled, its right leg bent at an impossible angle, badly broken in several places. Without hesitation, J.B. put a short burst from the Uzi into the horse, grabbed the saddlebags, then took off running. But the bags weighed more than he could carry, and the man reluctantly dropped the spare water and nukelamp.

  Reaching the low stone wall of the boundary marker, the companions slowed their horses to take stock of the situation. The desert ahead seemed clear, but the outriders were still somewhere in the darkness, and the wall guards were getting better with those blasters now that they figured out it wasn't an invasion. If Gaza got his hands on J.B., he'd be aced on the spot. They'd have to make a stand.

  "Doc, Jak, watch our backs!" Ryan ordered.

  "The rest of us, let's start clearing off that wall and give J.B. some cover!"

  "All for one, and one for all!" Doc said in a loud clear voice, drawing both of his huge pistols and cocking back the hammers.

  Holding the reins in one hand, Dean gave a sharp nod at that advice as he pulled out the Browning. Never leave a friend behind, or a coldheart alive, as his father always said.

  Dodging some loose bricks still falling from the smashed wall, J.B. hit the sand running and started to follow the hoof prints, holding tightly on to his munitions bag to keep it from flapping a
bout and slowing him. Then a rumble sounded to the left, and he felt the ground shake as horses came thundering out of the darkness. Whistling loudly, J.B. headed toward them, thinking it was his friends. Then blasters started sparking in the darkness, a round tugging on his leather jacket. Mounted guards! Zigzagging in the night, J.B. opened up with the Uzi, the hardball ammo mowing down the first row of animals, the second row plowing into the dead. The shouts of pain were music to his ears, then the submachine gun jammed on a bad round and J.B. began laying tracks while jerking on the bolt to free the brass from the ejector port.

  "Outlander!" a guard cried from above, and crossbow bolts flew through the night thicker than a swarm of bees.

  As the jam came free, J.B. raced for the desert, firing bursts over his shoulder until the Uzi was empty. Pulling a concussion gren from the munitions bag, he pulled the pin and released the spoon to flip the explosive charge high into the air. It detonated with a tremendous bang, the shock wave slamming sec men off the parapet to fall to their deaths.

  At the sound of the gren, Ryan turned and squinted. There was a hellish light pouring through the breach in the ville wall from the burning buildings, and in the glow he could make out a running figure wearing a fedora and glasses.

  "John got out alive!" Mildred cried in joy.

  "We go back!" Jak stated firmly.

  "We stay here!" Ryan commanded, reining his horse to a stop and sliding the Steyr off a shoulder.

  "Dean, get going son!"

  The young Cawdor wheeled his mount and started for the ville racing across the sand, staying just out of the light washing through the breech.

  Working the bolt, Ryan chambered a round and raised the sniper rifle to his eye for only a moment before firing. Silhouetted by the fire, a black shape on top of the wall cried out, the crossbow in his hands firing its quarrel into the guard beside him.

  Leveling the .30-30 longblaster, Mildred began to slowly squeeze off rounds and sec men fell off the wall, then Krysty, Jak and Doc trained their weapons on the outriders as they appeared coming over a low dune. The mounted sec men had tried to outflank the companions, and paid dearly for arriving too soon.

  Crouched low in the saddle, Dean urged the horse on to greater speed as he pounded across the flat open ground, his body moving in perfect rhythm to the massive animal. The distance between him and J.B. was decreasing by the second, and reaching behind, Dean released the lacings and the saddlebags slipped to the ground, making room for his passenger. This was why his father had sent Dean. He was the only person small enough to share a horse with J.B. and not fall behind from the weight of two riders.

  The ground around J.B. was puffing dust as the ville sec men started to find his range. The Armorer was running in a zigzag to avoid offering a steady target, but he was starting to tire, and the range was too great for his shotgun, the last gren, or anything else he had. His lungs were burning from the frantic effort, and his precious glasses kept threatening to bounce off his face as he pounded the sand.

  Reloading the Nitro Express, Krysty choked off a scream as an arrow went through her hair, cutting off several of the living filaments, and Jak cursed as he dropped the Winchester, blood flowing down a limp arm.

  A buzz went by Dean, and he felt something wet trickling down his cheek. Blood? Hot pipe, that had been close! A half inch more and he would have been impaled on the shaft of the quarrel. Blasted locals were too damn good with those crossbows.

  Reining the sweaty horse to an abrupt halt, Dean offered J.B. a hand, and the man scrambled on, kicking the beast hard in the rump with the heels of his combat boots.

  "Light this candle!" the Armorer wheezed, holding on to the saddle for dear life.

  Dean didn't bother to reply, just headed the horse into the darkness, kicking up the sand.

  Creaking loudly, the front gate of Rockpoint raised and out stormed a dozen fresh riders, brandishing longblasters.

  Now moving fast enough, J.B. hauled a C-4 block out of his bag, stabbed it with a timing pencil, broke off the detonator and tossed it behind.

  "What was that?" Dean demanded, banking to the left, and left again to confuse the enemy marksmen.

  "Protective cover!" J.B. said, reloading the Uzi.

  The charge hit the ground and rolled a few yards before violently exploding, throwing out a hellstorm of sand. Unable to see anymore, the guards on the wall had to stop shooting out of the fear of chilling their fellow sec men.

  Not hindered by that consideration, Ryan and the others filled the swirling sandstorm with lead, the screams of dying men and horses a testament to the accuracy of their shots.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Jak slipped off his horse, retrieved his blaster and crawled awkwardly back into the saddle. Ripping open his shirt, he stuffed the wounded arm into it as a crude sling, then crammed the reins into his mouth and started to fire the Winchester with one hand, throwing the longblaster forward by the lever, then pulling the trigger.

  One of the horses coming their way was nicked in the shoulder and veered sharply away from the pain to collide into another. Mounts and riders mixed and went crashing to the ground in a wild jumble of limbs and blasters. The two sec men directly behind tried to jump the tangle of bodies but only landed directly on the fallen men, crushing them, hooves slamming into chest with pile-driver force, ribs shattering.

  Half blind from the swirling sand, the rest of the pack rode onward, unlimbering their weapons when the night was suddenly illuminated by a strident detonation within the ville. Seconds later a towering geyser of clear water rose like a fountain above Rockpoint.

  "Somebody finally found the trip wire," Ryan muttered, his horse pounding over the hilly desert.

  The men on the walls stopped firing at the incredible sight, then held out their palms as a light sprinkle rained upon them from the rumbling geyser. Slowing their horses, the outriders did the same, staring in wonder at the fantastic, impossible sight. Water, clean, clear water, was gushing upward from the temple in the heart of the ville in unlimited amounts.

  "Nuking hell, it was a trick!" a sec man shouted furiously. "Gaza told us there was barely enough water to keep us alive, while he was sitting on a hidden ocean!"

  "Son of a bitch lied to his own sec men!" another man ranted, switching from looking at the ville to the escaping outlanders.

  "Blood for water, my ass!" a guard snarled, rubbing old scars on his chest.

  Reining in his mount, a sergeant brought the horse to a ragged halt in the sand. "Forget the outies," he commanded the rest of the troops. "Let's go get that son of a bitch Gaza and string him up by the balls!"

  Waving their blasters, the sec men shouted obscenities and reversed direction to charge back into the ville, hellbent for bloody revenge.

  Epilogue

  Drenched to the skin by the falling water, Baron Gaza slogged through the ankle deep puddles in the streets of the ville, heading for the junkyard. Again and again, he was approached by furious people screaming for revenge, and he ruthlessly cut them down with a rapidfire.

  How could things have gone so bad so nuking quickly? He was an outcast in his own ville! There was only one conceivable way that the outlanders could have possibly found the pump room. Hawk had to have been right; they were spies for Trader.

  Fortunately, the dried mud walls were softening under the presence of the water and soon the buildings would start to sag and crumble. Chaos was spreading through Rockpoint, and that alone was what gave Gaza the chance to escape with his wives. The silent women had expressed no wish to leave the man, and privately he was glad for their company. The more blasters covering his ass the better. Their sodden clothing clung to every curve, exposing a wealth of flesh, but the blasters in their hands were expertly balanced and swept the ville in a steady pattern. Gaza approved.

  Reaching the junkyard, Gaza cut down two sec men waiting in hiding near the fence, then took the handcannons from their twitching fingers, along with an oil lantern. Damn fools.

/>   Lighting the wick, Gaza held the lantern high as he maneuvered through the jumbled collection of junk and rusty cars, leading the five women at his back into a metallic cave formed by predark cars tilting against one another. The baron paused at one point, listening to the growing sounds of battle, punctuated by the groan of a collapsing building, before directing the women around a deadfall trap—an engine block attached to chains that would have swung along the middle of the tunnel with deadly force, a cast-iron pendulum that would have crushed any intruder into a bag of broken bones with one shot.

  After a few yards more, the baron guided them past a pitfall, the bottom of the deep hole studded with pool cues, the long sticks sharpened and charred with fire to make them strong. The rotting remains of a curious sec man rested halfway down the pit, his desiccated corpse still suspended in the air from the wooden shafts jammed into his torso and broken limbs.

  Once past that, Gaza kept his wives close as he paused to dig in the loose sand to uncover a wooden box. Lifting the lid, he cut a few wires inside, disabling a predark land mine, then started forward into the flickering darkness.

  From overhead came the steady patter of the falling water from the towering geyser, and soon the hissing lantern revealed a ramshackle school bus sitting in the center of the dim tunnel, its rusty sides covered with corrugated steel, the windows barred, jagged knife blades jutting from the rim of each tire.

  His wives bobbed their heads at the sight, and Delia eagerly started for the vehicle, but he roughly pulled her aside.

  "Leave it alone," Gaza directed impatiently. "That one's a boobie. No engine or fuel, and if anybody tries the ignition the whole thing blows."

  The women smiled proudly in appreciation of the death trap and followed their glowering husband as he eased around the crumbling wreck to reach a large canvas covered object just behind the bus.

  Hanging the lantern on a pole sticking out of the hard packed sand, Gaza ripped off the canvas to reveal the squat, angular box of a military wag.