"None that I know of."

 

 "Thank you," Krysty said in earnest.

 

 "Just paying his debt," Ryan said, working the bolt on the longblaster to chamber a round, then sliding it over a shoulder. Drawing the SIG-Sauer, he pointed it at Mitchum. "Where do you want it?" he asked brusquely.

 

 "Leg," the colonel replied tightening his jaw, then added, "And this makes us even! The slate is clean. We meet again, I'll ace your ass like any other invader threatening my ville."

 

 "Fair enough," Ryan said, then shot the sec men in the outermost part of the thigh, well away from the bone or major arteries.

 

 As Mitchum fell, slapping a hand on the wound to staunch the flow of blood, Ryan shot him again in the upper arm.

 

 "You bastard," Mitchum groaned, raw hatred contorting his handsome features, both hands busy putting pressure on his wounds.

 

 "Now nobody will doubt any story you tell them," the one-eyed man replied, and moved out the door into the night. The ville was quiet, the darkness lying over the trailers like a thick blanket.

 

 Few people were moving about on the streets, and the companions stayed in the shadows as much as possible. They backtracked out of the moonlight when a squad of armed troopers ran by, heading for the front gate. The men were armed with flintlock pistols, crossbows and nets. An unnerving sight those. It meant they wanted to capture the companions alive.

 

 "Looks like he was telling the truth," Dean muttered.

 

 "Could be," his father replied tersely. "But he betrayed his own baron to repay us, so who's to say he didn't do the same thing to us for some other reason? Trust nobody."

 

 "Not even the dead," Dean said, finishing the old saying. "I remember."

 

 "Gaia, watch over us this night," Krysty said to the sky, and distant thunder seemed to rumble in reply. But whether that was an agreement or denial, there was no way to know.

 

 There were bright lights and drunken singing coming from the gaudy house, and as they passed by a window opened, somebody relieving himself into the street.

 

 "Ah, civilization," Doc mumbled under his breath.

 

 Easily avoiding some people hurrying to their trailers, Ryan led them on a circular path to finally reach the baron's home from the other side. Crouching, they hid in some bushes while a contingent of guards and sailors marched past, long-blasters cradled in their arms. Baron Thayer was in the squad, as was a stranger in the livery of the lord baron. Ryan frowned. So that was Glassman, their new hunter. The Deathlands warrior didn't know what happened to Brandon, but he hoped it was painful and lasting. They would have been long gone if not for the sec man's interference.

 

 "I do not see the latrine," Doc rumbled, squinting into the darkness.

 

 "Me neither," Krysty said, her eyes held open wide, taking in the night around them.

 

 Ryan was forced to agree. Even with the pale moonlight coming through the clouds, he still couldn't see much of anything. However, the ville was becoming well lighted, torches burning on every corner. Oddly, the palace was still masked by the night. To lure them there? Could be.

 

 Just then a couple of sec men walked slowly by, speaking softly, longblasters resting on their shoulders.

 

 "Let's ask for directions," Ryan whispered, drawing the panga.

 

 Jak pulled out a leaf-bladed knife, and the men moved, sliding up behind the sec men. Ryan placed the curved blade of the panga around the throat of one, the touch of the cold steel making the man freeze motionless. Jak thrust his blade into the head of the second man, just to the right of the spine where it joined the skull. The man stopped moving instantly, then the teenager twisted the blade and the sec man exhaled once, sliding to the dirt as if his bones had turned into water.

 

 "Cry out, and you're chilled," Ryan whispered in the sec man's ear. "Now drop it."

 

 The blaster fell to the grass.

 

 "Okay, where is the baron's private latrine?"

 

 "The what?" the guards whispered, acting confused.

 

 Jak stabbed the man in the upper arm, then grabbed the fresh wound and squeezed. The sec man inhaled sharply, tears coming to his eyes before the teen finally let go.

 

 "You bastards," the guard panted, his face ashen white.

 

 "Not what I want to know," Ryan said in a dangerous voice, and Jak tightened his grip again, blood welling between his strong fingers.

 

 The sec men broke into a sweat. "Okay, okay! No more! It's past the horse corral, behind the woodpile."

 

 Ryan maintained his position while Jak disappeared into the darkness to return a few minutes later and showed a thumb.

 

 "You get to live," Ryan said, when the guard unexpectedly broke free and spun with a blade in his palm. He slashed for Ryan's belly, but the man swayed out of the way and Jak buried his blade into the guard's left kidney. Caught in the middle of a shout, the sec man could only gasp from the pain, and Ryan kicked the doubled-over man directly in the face. Bones audibly crunching from the strike, the guard fell sprawling, a hand clawing madly for his dropped blaster.

 

 Silver flashed in the moonlight as Doc lunged forward, spearing the man through the heart with his sword. The sec men jerked at the strike, then went still. Placing a boot on his chest, Doc yanked the blade out and wiped it clean on the dead man's shirt.

 

 Following Jak across the grounds, the friends easily found the latrine just past the horse corral. The small wooden hut was surrounded by weeds, and placed strategically behind the tall pile of cut wood so that nobody could see who was entering or leaving.

 

 Footsteps on the gravel made everybody pause, and they waited for discovery as the horses were released from the stable, and a dozen troopers rode off.

 

 "Looking for us," Krysty guessed. "Better hurry."

 

 Going to opposite ends of the woodpile, Ryan and Jak kept silent watch for more sec men while Mildred used her flashlight to illuminate the padlock on the door. Removing some tools from his munitions bag, J.B. got busy with picks and probes, the lock yielding in under a minute.

 

 "Piece of junk," he commented, sliding the chain through the loops and placing it gently in the weeds. "Could have kicked it open except for the noise."

 

 Easing open the old splintery door, Ryan found there was no floor, only a knotted rope hanging into the darkness. Fireblast, it was the cannie ville all over again. Hopefully, this time there wouldn't be an ambush waiting for them.

 

 Reaching into a pocket, Ryan pulled out a gren and made sure the pin was firmly in place, the tape tight around the priming handle. Going to the hole, he dropped the gren down the hole and listened. Three seconds later there was a thump of it landing, and then silence, no reaction to its arrival.

 

 "It's clear," he announced, starting down the rope.

 

 After a couple of yards, Ryan dropped the last few feet and landed with his blaster out, sweeping for targets. He was in a brick tunnel that extended into the distance in both directions. There was a diffuse light coming from bulbs inside wire cages along the ceiling. The electricity was probably coming from nuke batteries buried in the walls, and even those predark powerhouses were slowly dying over the long centuries.

 

 The gren had rolled a few feet down the tunnel, and he reclaimed the explosive charge, double-checking to make sure the pin and handle were in place. Just then, the rope jiggled and Dean dropped to the concrete floor, blaster in one hand, bowie knife in the other.

 

 "We're alone," Ryan said, tugging the rope three times to signal it was okay for the others to come down.

 

 Soon, the companions were gathered together, and Jak put his lighter to the rope, the old hemp slowly igniting and starting to burn upward out of sight.

 

 "Wet rope top with canteen," he said, pocketing the lighter. "So no burn latrine."

 

 "Well, it'll certainly slow down any pursuit," Mildred said, watching the fire crackling up the access way. It was concrete pipe with rusty holes along the side where iron rungs had been set for easy access. Only rust stains marked where they had once been inserted into the resilient material.

 

 "Indeed, madam, that is, until they find another rope," Doc rumbled anxiously. "My dear Ryan, I really cannot voice my sincere wish to vacate this untoward locale quite strenuously enough."

 

 "Yeah, we've got to blow this pesthole," Ryan agreed, stabbing his knife through the wire cage to break the bulb and plunge that section of the tunnel into darkness. Give the baron something else to worry about if he made it down here.

 

 "Which way leads to the sea?" he asked, sheathing the blade.

 

 Tilting back his fedora, J.B. checked his pocket compass. "That way goes inland, toward the jungle," he said, pointing. "The other heads to the ocean."

 

 Could be a wag hidden in the trees, or a boat on the beach. A boat was what they needed, so they might as well head for the water.

 

 "I'm on point," Ryan said, switching to the Steyr. "J.B. covers the rear. Three-foot spread."

 

 Walking on the toes of their boots to try to hold down the echoes, the companions soon saw a flickering silvery light from ahead and rushed forward to find the end of the brick tunnel blocked by a wall of falling water. Doc tested the depths with his sword and pronounced it safe. Shielding his blaster with his body, Ryan dashed through and found himself on the sandy shore of a small lagoon. A waterfall rushing from overhead completely masked the entrance of the tunnel, where the freshwater fed into a small pool filled with tropical fish. The shore was edged with tall mango trees festooned with fishing nets laced with green leaves. In the background he could hear the gentle sounds of waves cresting on the sand. But it was impossible to see anything on the other side of the disguising barrier. Thayer had done a good job here. Then Ryan noticed something large and covered with canvas moored on the nearby beach. There was their boat.

 

 Going to the waterfall, he stuck a hand through and gestured for the others to join him. In short order the rest of the companions exited the tunnel and marveled at the beautiful hidden grotto and its pristine golden beach.

 

 "That our boat?" Mildred asked, squeezing some of the excess water from her beaded locks.

 

 "Hope so," Ryan said, and, grabbing a fistful of canvas he yanked hard. The material easily slid off, exposing a wag underneath, not an oceangoing vessel of any kind.

 

 It was a predark school bus, covered in splotches of green and brown, jungle camou. The glass windows along both sides had been replaced with thick sheet-metal tack welded into place, and the front windshield was protected by a heavy iron grid, the bar studded with knife blades gleaming with oil. The rear window in the exit door had the same. Triangular spikes with barbed tips jutted from the rims of the wheels, and double tires were bolted to each axle, giving the wag tremendous traction. Blasters were everywhere, but there were no attached weapons that they could spot. With all the weight of the armor, Ryan doubted the wag made much speed, but it looked ready to travel.

 

 Jimmying open the door, J.B. climbed inside and saw that the back of the wag was stacked high with crates and barrels of supplies, poorly lettered wording showing what each contained: led, blakpoder, dri fesh, watr, chyen and such. Crates of longblasters filled the rear seats, and a crossbow hung from the ceiling along with quivers of bolts.

 

 "Enough supplies to start a new ville," Mildred said over his shoulder.

 

 "I think that was the idea," Doc noted wryly. "How fortunate for us."

 

 "Well, this clunker isn't War Wag One or the Leviathan," J.B. said, taking a seat by the front door. "But it'll do for today."

 

 Jak went straight to the rear door and checked its status, while Dean took a spot in the middle. Closing the double doors, Ryan dropped his backpack and sat just behind the driver's seat. Krysty slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition switch one click to check the gauges and controls. Ryan knew that she had the best night vision, so it made sense for her to drive the wag. Headlights would only have made them a moving target for the flintlocks of the ville sec men. Or worse, any cannon the ville might have mounted for wall defenses.

 

 Dim lights brightened on the dashboard, and Krysty tapped the fuel gauge with a finger to make sure it was a true reading.

 

 "Okay, we have plenty of battery power and full tanks of juice," she reported, strapping herself into the seat.

 

 "Head for the docks," Ryan directed. "Glassman has PT boats there. If we strike fast, we might be able steal one and use its Firebirds to blow the others apart."

 

 "Sounds good. Buckle in. Here we go!" Krysty clicked the ignition switch all the way, and the engine turned over but didn't start. Then she saw the choke on the dashboard, set that to the middle position, pumped the gas and tried again. This time the engines caught with a sputtering cough, rattling and backfiring before roaring into life, black smoke blowing out the tailpipes. Startled birds flew out of the trees screaming, as the bus backfired again, sounding louder than a shotgun.

 

 "Unless they're deaf, the sec men will know where we are now," Ryan grumped. "Hit the gas, and let's move!"

 

 Shifting gears, Krysty hit the clutch and rocked the bus back and forth a few times to escape the sand, then rolled forward, building speed, and plowed through the camou netting to emerge on a rocky beach. The log wall of Ratak ville stood on a gentle swell to their right, the docks straight ahead. A four-masted schooner was moored in the deep water, six of the deadly PT boats tied at the wooden pier. An oil lantern draped with cloth hung from a post, giving off a peculiar green glow. A seasoned traveler on ships, Doc had no idea what that could possibly mean.

 

 Keeping the headlights off, using only the muted moonlight, Krysty rumbled along the sandy beach, the ocean spray misting the windows on the left side. Quickly, the companions got ready to board and storm the first petey. But the bus got only halfway there, when brilliant electric lights crashed on to sweep the beach and captured them in a deadly wash of clear illumination.

 

 Ryan fired the Steyr out a blasterport at the searchlights, and one winked out. Instantly, the .50-caliber blasters from the PT boats began to hammer away, the heavy-duty combat rounds chewing a path of destruction along the sand toward the war wag. Then another petey added its firepower to the assault, and another.

 

 "Gaia!" Krysty shouted, hitting the gas and twisting the steering wheel to get away from the withering crossfire.

 

 But she was too slow, and a brief flurry of lead rattled the wag, punching a neat line of holes through the sheet metal covering the windows. Then there was a flash from the schooner, and a cannon roared, the beach exploding exactly where they had just been.

 

 "It's a trap!" J.B. shouted, firing the Uzi out a blasterport at the crews of the PT boats. Several of the men toppled over, but more took their places, and the incoming barrage of lead didn't even pause.

 

 "Hold on!" Krysty called, and slammed into a higher gear, the engine revving with power.

 

 Sand kicked up from impacting bullets, and several more hit the bus to musically ricochet into the darkness.

 

 "Head for the ville!" Ryan shouted, firing steadily.

 

 "What?" she demanded, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

 

 Ryan dropped a fresh mag into the breech of the Steyr. "Got to make a firewall!" he replied.

 

 "Gotcha!"

 

 A group of sec men carrying Firebirds crashed through a stand of trees directly in front of them. Pushing for more speed, Krysty felt the steering wheel jar as the wag rolled over the screaming men.

 

 Now heading for the ville, Krysty saw flintlocks fire along the top of the wall as she steered right for the small front door. As she got near, the door swung wide and a sec man on horseback rode into view. She plowed directly into them, the man and animal mashed into bloody pulp as the bus hurtled their mangled bodies into the doorway. Hitting the brakes, she swung the rear of the vehicle around until it was pointing at the entrance. Jak kicked open the aft door and pushed out a barrel of fuel, then slammed the door shut.

 

 Krysty hit the gas again and roared off as the companions poured blasterfire onto the fifty-five-gallon drum.

 

 They were near the edge of the clearing when a spark from the bullets hitting the barrel finally ignited the fuel and a tremendous fireball blossomed in front of the only exit, the splashed juice dribbling fire along the wooden walls of the ville.

 

 Working the clutch, Krysty shifted gears and broached the side road, really building speed now that the wag was on smooth ground. The trees flashed by in a blur until the friends reached a field and turned off the road to cut across the grassland heading for the savanna on the horizon.

 

 Behind them, alarms bells rang as blasterfire shook the trees searching for the escaping outlanders.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twelve

 

  

 

 His food supply exhausted days earlier, Baron Kinnison was nestled in the corner of the cell, standing on the bunk, slowly chewing a warm piece of rat when there came the sounds of boots in the outside corridor.

 

 Swallowing the morsel of food, the baron wiped his mouth on a sleeve, then drew his blaster and knife. Unfortunately, the blade wasn't as sharp as it had once been. Hampered by the darkness, Kinnison had missed stabbing the scurrying rats several times, damaging the needle tip of the stiletto on the granite floor. In desperation, he lit his only candle and killed as many as he could before the rodents understood what was happening and fled for their lives. Skinning and eating the raw flesh, the baron then stuffed the corpses into cracks in the walls. With those blocked, no more rats could get into the cell, and Kinnison could sleep for quite a while, recharging his body and clearing his mind.

 

 But as time passed, he had been forced to clear the cracks and smear some blood on the floor to entice the rodents back and maintain a steady food supply.

 

 The footsteps in the corridor stopped in front of his cell. Kinnison assumed his old position and put both hands into the air, trying to appear as if he were still shackled to the ceiling. Just let the fools get close enough, and he would be out of the stinking prison in a heartbeat.

 

 There was a clanging of keys and squealing of the rusty lock, then the door swung open and a grinning sec man walked inside.

 

 "Ah, he's asleep."

 

 "So wake him up," another said, chortling.

 

 Kinnison tried not to move as a bucket of sea-water splashed on him. The salt sizzled in his open sores, the pain beyond description, but Baron Kinnison moved from an instinct of raw will and slashed open the throat of the first guard even as the man reached for his blaster. He stumbled away, spraying his life onto the dirty stone walls.

 

 With a curse, the second guard tried to shove the door closed and Kinnison fired the revolver three times, the big-bore .45 punching into the door and driving it back, cracking the wrist of the sec man holding the latch. The guard could only stare in shock at the bones jutting from his skin when Kinnison charged. He hit the portal at a run, his five hundred pounds forcing it open all the way and crushing the guard between the door and wall.

 

 Pinned helpless, barely able to breathe, the guard tried to draw his blaster and fire a shot to summon help. But Kinnison savagely sliced along the length of the exposed arm, from wrist to elbow, severing tendons and arteries. The guard cried out in pain, dropping the weapon, and the baron kicked it away for later. Now the urge for revenge filled Kinnison with blind rage, and he pulled the door away, only to slam it on the man several more times, bones cracking and blood gushing until he was fully satisfied the traitor was aced. Then he dragged the corpse into the cell and looted both guards for more shot, powder and extra knives.

 

 Pausing in the corridor, Kinnison brushed back his wet hair and listened for any response to the fight. There was nothing to hear but the excited murmurs of the other prisoners. They knew something unusual had just occurred and were terrified it would happen to them next.

 

 Lifting the dead guard's oil lantern, Kinnison went to the nearest door and turned up the wick to let the prisoner inside clearly see his bandaged face.

 

 "B-baron?" the woman gasped through the tangles of her long gray hair. She backed into the corner and began to whimper.

 

 "Hello, dear sister," he said, unlocking the door. "There has been a revolt and I have been deposed. But fight with me to reclaim the throne, and you will be set free. Free!"

 

 But there was no response as the man undid the shackles around her wrists. Still shaking, the Lady Dana Kinnison simply stood there rubbing the thick calluses on her wrists.

 

 Kinnison handed her the ring of keys and a bloody knife. "Free the rest, sister, and head for the armory. Together, we'll fight to the dock and get off this hellhole."

 

 Lady Kinnison stood confused, her arms still partially raised from the years of confinement, the endless rapes and beatings having stolen the will to act from her weakened mind.

 

 "Well?" he insisted. "Decide, woman!"

 

 The woman looked at him with the dull eyes of an animal, and Kinnison sighed in disappointment, then slit her throat with a backhand slash. Reclaiming the items from her scrawny body, he went to the next cell and made a similar offer to a cousin. The baron went to every cell, family and friends, continuing down both sides of the dank corridor until he had an army of thirty, and ten more corpses.

 

 "Give me a blaster," one of the men demanded, his face hidden by twenty years of hair. "You got three."

 

 Kinnison knew this was a turning point, so he placed the loaded flintlock into the prisoner's bony hands, then helped the weak man to place the barrel against his own throat. The man's eyes went wide in shock, then gleamed in bestial pleasure.

 

 "This is your chance," the baron said, pushing back the hammer until it clicked into place. "Pull the trigger and everything done to you will be avenged."

 

 "Or," he added quickly, "you can use that powder on the next sec man you see and earn yourself a place in the council once more." Kinnison almost choked on the next words, but he got them out and tried to sound sincere. "I was a fool to mistrust loyal men and have paid the price. Join me in my fight and command troops once more. Or fire that blaster and warn the guards. They may even let you live and go back to your cell. Twenty more years of chains and torture—isn't that worth the single moment of satisfaction you would get chilling me?"

 

 Murmuring among themselves, the crowd shuffled its feet, anxiously waiting for the matter to be settled. Breathing heavily, the prisoner stared at the blaster, then at Kinnison, the internal battle clearly visible on his haggard features. Finally, he released the trigger and lowered the blaster.

 

 "A high seat on the council," he growled in correction.

 

 "Done," Kinnison said, releasing the revolver in his pocket to pass out the other flintlocks. Damn feeb took so long the baron almost believed that he would rather live forever as a prisoner, if only he could ace the baron who put him there. He was a fool and would have to be executed immediately once Kinnison was back in power.

 

 Leading his pack of rats up the stairs, Kinnison unlocked the door at the landing and eased it open only a crack, then started mumbling about a woman's breasts.

 

 As expected, a sec man came to the door and peeked there. "What you got there?" he asked eagerly. "A new prisoner for us to ride?"

 

 Kinnison stabbed the stiletto into the man's left eye, the blade penetrating deep into his brain. Already dead, the body fell to the floor and the prisoners swarmed over the warm corpse, taking his clothes and weapons. Then a woman noticed some food on the table and the starved people tore the bread apart, swallowing the chunks intact, almost gagging on the first wholesome meal any of them had eaten in months.

 

 While they licked the crumbs off the floor, Kinnison went to a blaster rack and unlocked the chain, passing out pistols and longblasters, along with heavy pouches of ammo.

 

 "Everybody know where the armory is?" he asked.

 

 They nodded eagerly, fondling the weapons.

 

 "I'll distract the guards," Kinnison lied, making a mark on a burning candle with his thumbnail. "When the wax burns down to here, you come charging out with blasters firing. Chill anybody you see. I'll meet you at the armory, and we'll make our stand. By noon tomorrow, the mansion will be ours, then the ville and finally the entire island. Nothing can stop us now. Victory or death!"

 

 "Vict'ry," a man cackled, and the rest took up the cry, their hoarse whispers raised in a determined chant, broken by ragged coughing.

 

 Kinnison hid his repulsion. It was pitiful. Then the baron saw that several of them were giggling like children. The wild, feverish looks on some of their faces made Kinnison think many thought this was merely a wonderful dream and wasn't actually happening. How could it? But that was fine. Their madness would make them dangerous and draw lots of attention from the sec men, giving him the few minutes necessary to reclaim his ville.

 

 Exiting the dungeon, Kinnison hesitated to listen for the sounds of marching guards coming this way, but this wing of the mansion was quiet. His heart pounding, the baron walked barefoot along the cold stones, pausing only to snatch a pillow from a chair set close to a window. There was some kiwi fruit in a bowl, and he gobbled it down without peeling it first, the tangy juices running down his swaddled chin. It tasted better than sex, and the baron wondered how he could have ever thought the fruits were too tart to eat. Simply wonderful.

 

 Soft singing could be heard from outside, the words drifting through the windows as he proceeded along a hallway. Celebrating his demise, were they? Somebody would pay for that.

 

 Reaching the main corridor, Kinnison slipped behind some tapestries and bypassed a group of visiting barons chatting with the ville quartermaster. Selling them Firebirds, eh? More fools to chill when he got the chance.

 

 Darting around a corner, he surprised a maid and he stabbed her in the heart, leaving the blade in place to hold down the bleeding until he dragged her into a closet.

 

 Exiting the closet, Kinnison saw that the corridor was clear, a lone armed guard standing before the closed doors of the throne room. That shotgun was real trouble, but he had no choice. Summoning his courage, Kinnison sheathed the blade, then with blaster and pillow ready, he made his run toward the sec man, moving as fast and as quietly as he could. When the baron was only a yard away, the sec man spun, reaching for his alley-sweeper, then balked in surprise.

 

 "Baron Kinnison!" the sec man cried out.

 

 Shoving the pillow against the sec man's chest, Kinnison shot him directly in the heart, the cushion muffling the shot. The man sagged, and Kinnison hauled him to a chair, propping up his head with the reverse side of the pillow, and placed the shotgun across his lap. Ah, quite lifelike.

 

 Kinnison felt troubled about the death, but it would have been unwise to waste a moment learning if the man was glad to see him, or ready to shout a warning. The baron consoled himself with the fact that every throne in history was built on the dead. Such was the way of the world.

 

 Going to a suit of armor standing in a nearby wall niche, Kinnison lifted the visor and fumbled about inside until finding the switch. He lost a fingernail forcing the mechanism to operate. Been too long since it had last been oiled.

 

 As the pedestal disengaged, he pushed it into the wall and squeezed his bulk into the cramped passageway beyond. Bandages and skin were scraped off painfully until he was deep enough into the passage before he could swing the secret door closed again. Obviously, the baron had been much thinner when he last used it.

 

 Lighting the candle he had been saving from the stash in his cell, the baron forced himself along the passageway, the rough bricks tearing the scabs off his sores, the salty damp clothing burning like red-hot coals against his diseased flesh. It was becoming difficult to breathe in the cramped quarters, but Kinnison forced himself onward. Victory or death.

 

 Reaching a flight of stairs formed by the back side of stone lintels, Kinnison froze as the sound of marching could be clearly heard from the hallway underneath, closely followed by blasterfire and wild shouting. Nuke those feebs! His army was attacking early. Now racing against the clock, Kinnison maneuvered faster through the narrow crevice until reaching a small storage room hidden inside the thick walls of the predark post office. Panting from the exertion, he fumbled with a wooden chest, breaking the wax seal along the edges, and extracted a bundle of oiled cloth. Lovingly, he unwrapped the machine pistol and quickly thumbed an empty clip full of fat greasy bullets from a plastic sandwich box. One of the most important lessons his father had ever taught the young baron was to never leave a rapidfire loaded for long periods. The spring in the clip would get weak over time, making the blaster jam exactly when you would need it the most. Vital data, indeed.

 

 Going to a spyhole, Kinnison worked the bolt on the MAC-10 and peeked out at the roof of the mansion. A squad of sec men was smoking seaweed cigars and casually talking as they milled about. The news of the mass escape hadn't reached up here yet, but it would soon. He had to move.

 

 Carefully, the baron counted their numbers until he was sure all of them were in sight at the same time. Then putting the barrel of the MAC-10 machine pistol to the hole, he cut loose at their shins, blowing away clothing and flesh until the screaming men were lying on the roof, and he emptied the clip into their faces.

 

 Pushing open the panel, Kinnison now heard the alarm bell and knew he had won the race by only a heartbeat. Going to the Firebird launch pod at the edge of the roof, Kinnison looked down upon his domain, savoring the sight. Then he turned and, lifting a Firebird from the pod, hugged it close until his fat arms warmed the missile and he felt a stirring of the pilot within. Leaning close, Kinnison whispered the words of command to the tiny mutie and slid the Firebird back into place. Then he lit the fuse with the lantern that was always present and watched it sizzle steadily. Ten minutes to go. All was ready.

 

 Waddling to the doorway, he slid the external bolts home, sealing off the roof from anybody who might alter his settings. Then returning to the secret passageway, Kinnison worked his way tothe ground floor, leaving streaks on the walls from his forced travels. His shirt and pants were in rags, most of his bandages flapping loose, exposing his horrible mottled flesh beneath. The oozing sores still stung from the bath of salt water from the jailers, and Kinnison was ashamed to admit losing a finger in the passageway.

 

 At the suit of armor, Kinnison looked through a spyhole into the corridor to make sure it was safe to leave, but saw two more armed sec men staring aghast at the dead man in the chair. The tall private shook the corpse, and the shotgun clattered to the floor, the body slumping sideways to expose bloody clothing.

 

 "Nukeshit, this guy is aced!" he cried, backing away.

 

 As the other guard stuffed two fingers in his mouth to whistle for more sec men, Kinnison rammed the MAC-10 into the opening and fired off a sweeping burst. Removing the blaster, he checked the results and was pleased to see the guards prone on the floor, bleeding profusely.

 

 But even with the rapidfire behind the stone-block wall, the noise was bound to bring help. Leaving the passageway, Kinnison walked to the double doors on the throne room and peeked through the keyhole. Sure enough, Griffin the usurper was holding court with the new leaders of the island, discussing the unexpected revolt.

 

 "How did they get out?" Baron Griffin demanded, banging a fist on the arm of the throne. "And what happened to the guards?"

 

 An officer saluted. "We have no idea, my lord. The doors weren't battered down or the locks shot off. It's as if they were opened with the proper keys."

 

 "Kinnison," the new baron growled. "I don't know how, but somehow that fat bag of pus is behind this."

 

 "Colonel, take a squad and find out if the former baron is still in his cell," Griffin demanded, worrying a fingernail.

 

 "We have, my lord," another replied. "But he's long gone. Probably hidden deep in the jungle somewhere."

 

 "Not yet," Kinnison growled as he entered the room, the chattering MAC-10 mowing down the front line of sec men and barons. The rest dived for cover behind their chairs and the food-laden buffet table.

 

 "You!" Griffin shouted, drawing a blaster.

 

 Swinging around the chattering machine pistol, Kinnison peppered the chancellor on the throne, tearing out gouts of wood from the arms of the chair, throwing off Griffin's aim. His blaster barked twice, hitting nothing. Then Kinnison rode the bucking rapidfire into a tighter grouping and tore Griffin apart, blowing away his fingers, shattering an elbow, breaking his knees and removing his manhood in a barrage of hot lead. The 9 mm rounds stitched a zigzagging path across his body, the spent brass arching through the air to land tinkling on the floor.

 

 Bleeding from a dozen locations, the mutilated man tried to rise, but instead he fell to the stone floor, twitching and choking, drowning in his own blood.

 

 Putting a burst into the ceiling to capture everyone's attention, Baron Kinnison slapped in his last clip and walked boldly into the room, covering the crowd with his smoking weapon. Many of the sec men had weapons out, but none dared to fire, unsure if the baron was alone or if squads of soldiers were en route to the throne room to back his play. Exactly what Kinnison had been counting on— their fear of betrayal. Like the thief frantic with worry that others would rob his stolen treasure, the traitors expected treachery from others.

 

 "I'm the baron of this ville," Kinnison stated loudly, glaring at them from within his swaddling bandages. "And if I don't rule here, then nobody does. Surrender, or the island will be destroyed."

 

 "Can't chill us all with only one blaster," a captain stated grimly, his hand yanking back the hammer on his mammoth handcannon.

 

 "Don't need to," Kinnison replied. "In a few minutes every Firebird on this island will launch, streak high into the sky and then curve back to blow this mansion and the ville below to pieces. The powder mills, the armory, all have been targeted. Maturo Island will burn, and nothing can stop them but my word."

 

 Incredibly, the fat man then tossed the blaster aside and casually walked across the room to sit in the throne.

 

 "Swear an oath of loyalty and obedience to me," he said, flipping over a hand, "or die. Your choice."

 

 "It's a bluff," a lieutenant said, licking dry lips.

 

 Suddenly, there was a roar as a Firebird launched from overhead.

 

 "That was from the roof!" a sergeant exclaimed.

 

 "The first of hundreds," Kinnison said slowly, trying to heighten the tension. Their fear was the only tool he had to regain the throne. This trick either worked, or he died. It was that simple. All or nothing. Victory or death.

 

 Holstering his piece, a young corporal went to one knee. "We are yours to command, Lord Baron," he said.

 

 Kinnison spent precious moments studying the sec man. He had to be a new recruit as the face was unknown. Clean shaved and bald, the sec man moved with the grace of a jungle cat, only small scars marking his face. His gun belt was woven canvas, not the usual black leather, and the handles of his handcannons were heavily carved. Some sort of a tattoo peeked out from under a sleeve, and a gold earring hung from a lobe. A former sailor. How interesting.

 

 "What's your name?" the baron ordered, fighting off a stomach spasm. His need for more jolt was making itself known again.

 

 "Rochar Langford, my lord," the young man answered calmly.

 

 Kinnison was impressed; the man wasn't afraid. Amazing, and potentially useful. The baron grandly gestured. "Your oath is accepted. Rise, Chancellor Rochar Langford."

 

 "Ch-chancellor?" Langford gasped, then collected himself and gave a salute. "Sir, yes, sir!"

 

 Realizing the untenable position of indecision, the rest of the people in attendance also knelt and swore to obey the baron. The pledges of fidelity were strong, and well delivered. But Kinnison coldly remembered when they had given the exact same oath many years ago, before the revolt. His grandfather used to say that promises were like pie crusts, made to be broken.

 

 "My lord, what about the Firebirds?" a major asked anxiously, glancing at the ceiling as if he could see the missiles streaking through the air.

 

 "They have been neutralized," Kinnison stated, and waited. There was a long dramatic pause, and the baron feared he had timed the blast wrong when a powerful explosion sounded from outside.

 

 Surreptitiously, the sec men exchanged glances, wondering how the hell the fat man could control the Firebirds without speaking directly to them. Settling into his throne, Kinnison was pleased to see the fear of his unknown abilities fill their faces. Excellent. It would be quite a while before he was challenged again.

 

 "Chancellor!" Baron Kinnison snapped.

 

 Directing some servants to drag away the body of Griffin, Langford turned. "My lord?"

 

 "Send a squad of sec men to collect the escaped prisoners and chain them in the powder mill. We will need their cells. Soon enough the dungeon will be packed with traitors waiting for execution."

 

 The crowd of barons and officers didn't take that news well, and several began to quietly slip out of the throne room.

 

 "I'll handle it personally, sir," Langford replied, watching the door close behind the officers. "Sergeant, take a squad and follow those men. Don't let them leave the island without my direct authorization."

 

 "Yes, sir," the sec man said, saluting.

 

 Kinnison smiled. Competent help, at last. "Good man. Then release the carrier falcons to our peteys and sailing ships. They are to stop hunting pirates and muties to concentrate on locating the outlander Ryan and his group. I want a recce of every ville within a five-day sail."

 

 "Sir!"

 

 "And increase the reward to weapons, powder and slaves."

 

 "It will be done."

 

 A lieutenant cleared his throat. "My lord, Griffin ordered their immediate deaths. Should we now have the troops try to capture them alive?"

 

 "No! Chill them all on sight," Baron Kinnison declared with a frown. "Except for the two women. Break their arms to keep them from escaping and bring them to Maturo Island."

 

 "Yes, my lord!"

 

 As the guard raced away with the orders, Kinnison smiled to himself. Yes, the outlander sluts were perfect. Under torture they might tell many important things. And if they knew nothing useful, well, he needed new wives to start trying again for a son. Maybe several this time. Fresh meat should do the job nicely.

 

 That was, for as long as they lived.

 

  

 

 Chapter Thirteen

 

  

 

 "Try it again!" Ryan shouted, putting his weight behind the tree branch and shoving the end deeper into the mud under the stuck tire. Getting ready, the rest of the companions put their shoulders to the mired bus and dug in their boots.

 

 "Third time is the charm," Doc muttered.

 

 "Shut up, you old coot," Mildred growled, squeezed tight between J.B. and Dean.

 

 "Here we go!" Krysty shouted out the side window, and started the engine, blue exhaust pouring from the tailpipes. Then pumping the gas pedal, the woman shifted gears and stomped on the clutch, rocking the long wag back and forth.

 

 The companions pushed as the back tires began to spin freely in the slick mud, sending out a spray of muck until smoke rose from the hot rubber. The wag started to inch forward, then Ryan cried out as the tree branch broke from his grip and sailed off into the nearby trees.

 

 "Kill the engine!" Ryan spit, flexing his stinging hands. "Save the juice!"

 

 As the engine dieseled off, the wag promptly settled into the mud once more. Fireblast! After all they had been through, to be stopped by something like this. Krysty had carefully avoided the roads and cut across barren fields, pausing only to let Ryan set fire to the savanna to hide their trail. Going miles out of the way, J.B. blew up a bridge and tried to make it seem they had crossed to the other side first. Then they drove off with tree branches tied to the bumper to erase the tire marks. Jak took a turn behind the wheel, driving the wag down the bed of a shallow river, so the water would wash away any marks, then started into the mountains and drove back out over the wag's tracks to lay a fake trail. Reaching the grasslands, the companions were confident of not being followed. Then they encountered the mud.

 

 "Mebbe we should empty the bus," Dean suggested, rubbing his shoulder where it had been pressed against the wag. "Make it lighter."

 

 "Wouldn't help," J.B. stated, shifting his stance in the mucky soil. "Not when we're already this deep."

 

 "Acing mud." Jak scowled in annoyance, sliding off his jacket to toss it through the open back door of the wag. His shirt was sleeveless, and the hard rippling muscles in his pale arms were clearly defined. As were countless scars.

 

 Using a strip of cloth to bind her beaded hair, Mildred said, "This is more like quicksand than mud."

 

 "A rose by any other name," Doc rumbled, brushing some speckles off the frills of his shirt. He was getting filthy, and thought that he'd have to ask Emily to soak it as soon as he got back to keep the material from permanently staining.

 

 "Hey, any block and tackle in the wag?" Dean asked, cracking his knuckles, exactly as his father often did. "Mebbe we can hitch the axle to a tree and pull the bus free."

 

 "Sounds good. Go check," Ryan said, trying to shove the branch deeper under the left tire. "Everybody else get some more branches. We need to chock every tire firmly."

 

 "Can't hurt," Mildred agreed.

 

 Straightening his fedora, J.B. swung the Uzi to his front and stood guard while the others trundled out of the soggy ground and headed into the trees for fresh supplies of wood.

 

 Slogging around the bus, Dean climbed inside and scraped the soles of his boots clean on the metal step before going to the rear of the wag and rummaging through the stacks of boxes. He found a tremendous amount of smoked food, but little in the way of tools. Could they have missed a stash back at the lagoon?

 

 "Any luck?" Ryan shouted through the rear door.

 

 "Nothing yet!" Removing a wicker basket of blankets, the boy uncovered a long narrow crate. Unlike the other containers, this one was tied securely shut. Using his bowie knife, Dean cut the ropes holding it closed and flipped over the hinged top.

 

 "Hot pipe!" he cried out, lifting a fat tube into view. "Firebirds!"

 

 "Let me see," J.B. said, opening the rear door.

 

 Stepping over some boxes, Dean passed him a tube, and the Armorer studied the weapon. Just a simple bamboo tube lacquered with tree resin until it was fireproof, with carved wooden grips so the gunner could hold the weapon steady. Jammed inside was a black-powder rocket with a crude fuse hanging from the side. That was it. Yet the crude weapons had created Kinnison an empire of villes unlike anything in the history of the Deathlands.

 

 "Love to take this apart and find out how a black-powder rocket can change course to hunt down a target," J.B. muttered, testing its balance and weight. Very nice.

 

 "Comps," Jak said as if that settled the matter.

 

 Turning in her seat, Krysty snorted. "The lord baron is barely able to make black powder. No way he can build chips to guide rockets."

 

 "Then how make go left right?" Jak demanded.

 

 Krysty shrugged in reply, and J.B. gave a start as the tube in his hands trembled slightly at the words. Had the rocket responded to the spoken directions? Dark night, what the hell were these things?

 

 "Here's six more," Dean added, shoving aside the loose collection of wood chips in the crate. "Nope, there's eight!"

 

 "Put this away and leave them be." J.B. handed back the weapon and watched the boy repack the Firebird and close the crate. There was something unnerving about the rockets that made him want nothing to do with them.

 

 Continuing his search, Dean soon had checked every box without success.

 

 "No tackle," he reported out the rear door. "Not even a wrench."

 

 "Okay, we try something else," Ryan said resolutely.

 

 Leading the way, Mildred and the others returned with more branches from the nearby woods. Ryan began snapping off the smaller branches, then used the panga to sharpen their tips.

 

 "Find a rock and drive these stakes into the mud behind the larger branches under the tires," he directed, using his bare hands to do the job. Standing, he inspected the work. "Mebbe that'll hold them in place long enough to give us some traction. Only need a minute or two."

 

 "Consider it done," Doc rumbled, and got busy with the other side.

 

 Ryan turned to the doorway. "Krysty! This time rev the engine high as she'll go before slipping it into gear."

 

 "Could bust the tranny, lover," Krysty said.

 

 "No other way. We've got to chance it. If Glassman arrives and finds us trapped, it's going to be bad."

 

 "Do my best."

 

 Resuming their positions, the companions braced their heels against additional branches stomped into the mud. It was Jak's idea to give them more stability. Every little bit helped. Ryan joined them, putting his back to the bumper, his knees slightly bent. Mildred was at the other side of the wag in the same position, but he knew it was for different reasons. The healer had to protect her hands.

 

 "Get ready!" Krysty answered and started the engine, bluish-gray fumes spewing from the tailpipes. Slowly, she gunned the predark engine, building its rpm higher and higher, until the wag was shaking from the barely restrained power of the roaring diesel. On the rusty dashboard, the woman noticed the fuel gauge dropping steadily.

 

 "Now!" Ryan shouted, shoving against the wag with all of his strength, tendons rising into view on his hands and neck.

 

 Spraying out mud, the rear wheels spun freely in the slick material until touching the buried branches. Those shot backward to hit the restraining stakes, which immediately began to lean over. But the trembling branches held in place for a moment, and briefly the tires spun on the anchored green wood, the bus creeping forward a scant inch. Muscles surged as the engine roared. Then the wag lurched ahead another inch and triumphantly rolled out of the depressions to keep going.

 

 "Gaia, we did it!" Krysty shouted, and started to slow down.

 

 "Keep moving!" Ryan shouted, waving both arms. "Don't stop or you'll get stuck again!"

 

 A hand waved from the driver's window in acknowledgment, and Krysty swung the bus in an easy circle, going back for the companions. Wary of the edged spikes sticking out of the wheels, Mildred jumped on board at the side door, and Jak used the rear. It took a few more circles before everybody was on board and the wag moved sluggishly through the sticky field for the distant horizon once more.

 

 Dropping into their seats, the companions sparingly used some of the water from their canteens to wash hands and faces clean. Boots and clothes would wait until the mud dried and could be simply scraped off.

 

 "Too bad we can't use the road," Krysty said, turning on the windshield wipers. The spray of muddy droplets from the front wheels was speckling the glass and making it difficult to see clearly.

 

 Unfortunately, the old blades merely smeared the stuff, making it worse. Locating a puddle of water, Krysty drove straight through, and the resulting splash washed the windshield clean for a moment.

 

 "Roads are too dangerous," Ryan said, belting on his blaster again. The semi and automatic weapons had stayed in the bus to keep them out of the mud; only the people with revolvers had kept on their blasters while working outside. "Mud like this will smooth out after a while and erase our path."

 

 "Also faster," J.B. said, cleaning his glasses. He held them to the light, then rubbed some more. "The road follows the shoreline. This cuts through the middle of the island and saves us miles."

 

 "If we don't get stuck again," Krysty muttered, fighting the wheel. Driving across the field was becoming progressively difficult. If she slowed too much, the bus would get trapped again, but too fast and the wheels started to hydroplane on the slick layer of water that hid the tacky mud below. Almost like quicksand and dirt combined. That was an ugly thought. Better watch for smooth areas with no plants growing and avoid those.

 

 Concentrating on the driving, Krysty didn't hear the warning until the second time Ryan spoke.

 

 "Watch for the stickie!" he repeated, pointing with his blaster.

 

 Krysty glanced to the right and there it was, charging at the wag. Trying to avoid a collision, she twisted the steering wheel, but the distance was too short. The wag slammed into the humanoid creature, the spiked fender tearing open its belly, guts and blood gushing out. Dropping from sight, the bus thumped over the body and kept moving.

 

 "Damn thing just stood there," Krysty said, glancing at the rearview mirror. There was a pool of blood in their wake, nothing more. The body was driven underground by the weight of the bus. "I didn't have a chance to swerve."

 

 "Probably never saw a wag before," J.B. commented, pulling his hat over his eyes and slumping in his seat. With Ryan standing guard with the Steyr, it was safe to catch a quick nap.

 

 "Never will again," Doc added in wry humor, starting to run a whetstone along the edge of his sword. The blade had gotten a few nicks in the last fight, and this was his first opportunity to sharpen the steel.

 

 "Most likely it was attracted to the sound of the engine," Mildred said, releasing her hair and shaking it back into shape. Almost mindless, stickies always rushed at loud noises and bright lights such as explosions and campfires. The muties weren't all that easy to chill with blasters. Ugly bastards, too, with their octopus-like suckers on their hands and feet, weird eyes and almost nonexistent mouths.

 

 Mildred had no idea how the creatures ate enough to stay alive.

 

 WISPY CURLS of smoke rose from the blackened ashes at the front of Ratak ville. The fire had raged out of control for more than a day, and the log wall now sported a charred hole large enough to sail a petey through. A mutie Hunter had already tried to get inside, the thing driven off only by the combined blasters of the ville sec men and those from the petey fleet. One against a hundred, and the Hunter still managed to chill four guards and escape alive. Damn the jungle muties to Davey; they were harder to ace than the Lord Bastard himself.

 

 Standing in the cold morning air, Captain Glassman watched the work crews and sipped at a hot mug of coconut milk laced with shine, feeling the warmth seep into his bones. Out at sea, his crew had spotted dirty clouds on the horizon and the mornings were getting chilly. Which meant that the rains would be coming soon. More bad news.

 

 Now ville sec men stood guard over the gap in the wall, while his own troopers walked the parapets, armed with Firebirds. Using only their bare hands, heavily shackled slaves sifted through the embers trying to locate the irreplaceable metal hinges for the heavy door. From the nearby jungle came the sound of axes, a work crew already felling trees to replace those destroyed by the flames.

 

 Raising his mug, Glassman used the last sip to toast the slaves' good luck in finding the hinges. If those were lost, or severely damaged, then the ville was in real trouble.

 

 Marching boots and the clatter of weaponry heralded the arrival of Baron Thayer and his personal cadre of guards. They looked well rested and freshly scrubbed, clothes clean and boots polished, unlike the grimy sec men who stood guard during the night and fought off the Hunter as it came roaring through the wall of fire. Glassman narrowed his eyes at the sight. Sleeping while the ville was attacked.

 

 "Good morning, Captain," Baron Thayer hailed, walking over to join the man. "How goes the work?"

 

 Smiling, Glassman pulled his blaster and slapped the man across the face with the iron barrel. Twisting, Thayer stumbled and fell to the ground. His bodyguards reached for their weapons, then stopped as a Firebird streaked over the ville to detonate in the sky. With hands only inches from their weapons, the ville sec men glared at the petey sailors on top of the wall, pointing a dozen of the long black tubes in their direction. Slowly, the sec men moved their hands and backed away from the baron. Never wavering, the sailors tracked their movements with the Firebirds.

 

 "Idiot! Feeb! Incompetent ass!" Glassman shouted, cocking back the hammer and pointing the blaster at the prone baron. "Ryan and his people were here. In your ville. Eating their dinner. Right here! You had them in the palm of your mutie-loving hand and let them escape? How is that possible?"

 

 "You dare to strike me," Thayer growled, touching his aching cheek. There was the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and a tooth felt loose. "I'm the baron of this ville! Within these walls, I rule supreme!"

 

 In response, Glassman tightened his finger on the trigger. The hammer fell, flint scraped steel, throwing off a spray of sparks that ignited the black powder in the primer pan, which set off the main charge in the barrel. The actions took a second to happen, and Thayer could only cringe before the flintlock thundered in the morning air. The baron's face exploded from the crushing arrival of the .75 mini-ball, his teeth and eyes flying in different directions as his skull burst apart, brains and hair blowing across the ground.

 

 "The baron," Glassman muttered, handing the smoking blaster to a waiting sailor. "Not anymore, dolt."

 

 The sailor immediately passed the captain a fresh blaster and began to reload the spent weapon.

 

 Staring at the still body, Glassman was surprised to discover that he didn't feel any shame or remorse. There was no shock or revulsion at the sight of chilling like before. In fact, deep inside, the former healer had to admit that he liked it, the taking of a life by force. He had used his healing skills to avoid fighting, to make himself far too valuable to ever risk in combat. And whichever side won would always need the services of a healer. He had tried to be beyond violence, not from the love of life, but from the fear of losing his own. Since childhood, Glassman had been terrified of being hurt. Just a sniveling coward, yellow to his bones. But on this mission for Kinnison, he found that new doors were opening inside his mind, and the rush of a chill was becoming a delight, only equaled by the release of sex. Something deep inside the man rose to fight off the growing madness, tried and failed. Glassman felt its departure and stood very alone in the middle of the ville, knowing that with this death he had crossed a line and would never be the same again.

 

 "Colonel Mitchum!" he bellowed, still staring at the ground.

 

 Hobbling through the crowd of busy slaves, the sec chief stopped a few yards away from the captain. He glanced once at his aced baron, then didn't give the headless corpse another thought.

 

 "Yes, sir," Mitchum said, resting awkwardly on his crutch. The colonel was unshaved, having stood watch with his men through the long night. His clothes were filthy, a leg and an arm stiffly wrapped in bloody bandages. The gun belt from around his waist was slung across his chest in the manner of a bandolier, the holstered flintlock in easy reach of his good arm.

 

 "Ryan gave you those wounds," Glassman stated.

 

 "Yes, sir, he did," Mitchum growled, and felt the rush of hatred warm his face.

 

 A slave cried out in triumph, lifting a hinge from the hot ashes and waving it about. An overseer snatched away the object and whipped the woman back to work.

 

 "Find Ryan before he leaves this island and he is yours to punish for a day," Glassman stated. "Execute the others on the spot. Understand me? No rape, no games, just put lead in their head."

 

 The words "or else" weren't said aloud, but Mitchum clearly heard them spoken anyway.

 

 "Then I'm baron here," Mitchum said bluntly, standing a little taller.

 

 There was a momentary pause. "If you find Ryan, yes. Until then, I'm in charge."

 

 "Deal. Give me his revolver," Mitchum said eagerly, jerking his chin at the dead man.

 

 Glassman gestured and one of the local sec men removed the gun belt from the body and gave it to Mitchum. The cracked leather was speckled with gray and red, but the colonel didn't care. He was going to be the baron here! Mitchum draped the gun belt over his other shoulder, the two different blasters crisscrossing his chest.

 

 "They have the Juggernaut, and if they drove over the grasslands, they could be anywhere on the island by now," Mitchum said, checking the draw on the S&W .22 revolver. "Ryan had mentioned wanting a boat, and there's only three villes on the island to steal one. Cargo ville burned their boats because of the plague—Ryan and his people told us about it. Ours are too well guarded, which leaves Cascade."

 

 Teams of men began to drag the first of the felled trees into the ville.

 

 "Never heard of the place," Glassman said suspiciously.

 

 Mitchum grinned. "Little ville to the south, mostly predark ruins built on top of a waterfall. Bitch to see from the ocean. The mist from the fall sort of hides it from sight."

 

 Glassman wasn't overly disturbed by the news. Kinnison knew about the dozens of villes scattered throughout the Thousand Islands that remained hidden to avoid paying tribute to him. None was very big, or of any military importance. Aside from the armed dockyard of the pirate fleet.

 

 "How far away is it?" he asked.

 

 "Five days on horseback. Two by sea. You have to arc far around our island if going south to avoid the reefs. Can't take the northern route at all, unless you're willing to pay the toll."

 

 "Pirates?" Glassman asked, feeling a rush of excitement over the prospect of battle.

 

 Scratching at his stubble, Mitchum frowned. "Wish it was. Those we could handle. An old deeper lives off the north shore. It might be safe. He sleeps a lot, but when he wakes up hungry…"

 

 "Fair enough. Get your men ready. We leave in an hour."

 

 The taste of ashes filling his mouth from the smoke, Mitchum hawked and spit. "South it is."

 

 "For us," Captain Glassman stated. "But where that wag can roll, horses can run. You're to take troops straight across the island, while we steam around. Then we'll crush them between us in a two-sided attack at Cascade."

 

 "Should work," Mitchum said thoughtfully, then added, "if you give us some Firebirds."

 

 The captain turned his head sideways, as if looking away from the sec man, but his eyes never left Mitchum. "You want more," he said stiffly. "And yet the records I was given by the lord baron say this ville owns eight already."

 

 "Not anymore," Mitchum said hatefully, both hands clenched into hard fists. "They've sort of been stolen."

 

  

 

 Chapter Fourteen

 

  

 

 As the miles rolled by, the companions ate a cold meal from MRE packs, their blasters close at hand. On a couple of occasions, they saw more of the muties staggering about in the soggy fields, then a pack of them ripping apart a drowned opossum. At the first hint of the noisy wag's badly tuned engine, the stickies swarmed after the vehicle, but were easily outdistanced. Keeping a careful watch on the dashboard, Krysty balanced the rising engine temperature against getting away from the stickies. She took a life only when necessary, and would rather bypass the muties than brutally run them over.

 

 After a few hours, Jak took Krysty's place behind the wheel, and later on in the day, Ryan replaced him. Each shift was kept short, as steering through the thick mud was exhausting work. Half-blind from the dirty windshield, each driver had to stay alert for buried logs and rocks, holding on to the steering wheel with both hands to keep from losing control.

 

 "How are we doing?" Mildred asked, grabbing the luggage rack bolted to the ceiling and walking to the front of the school bus. An experienced car driver before being frozen, she was worried about the old engine. It had probably been quite a while since the wag had been driven anywhere, and a trip like this would be hard on a well-maintained vehicle.

 

 "Engine is running hot, and the oil pressure is low, but we already knew there was a leak somewhere. You can see blue in the exhaust," Ryan said, darting a glance at the dashboard. "Aside from that, the wag is okay. But we better start looking for a place to stop and refuel. The tank is almost dry."

 

 "Need bushes, too," Dean admitted in a husky voice, his legs tightly crossed. "Some things can't be done out the window of a moving wag."

 

 "Yes, they can," J.B. said, from under his hat. "It just ain't very comfortable."

 

 Suddenly, the bus dipped slightly and the sound of the engine rose in pitch as it revved higher, struggling to compensate. Grinding gears, Ryan pumped the gas pedal and fought to keep the engine operating. But their speed dropped to a mere crawl, and the engine temperature gauge rose alarmingly.

 

 "What's wrong, damage from that stickie we hit?" J.B. asked, coming fully awake in an instant.

 

 "Fucking mud again," he cursed, revving the engine and shifting to a higher gear. The bus sluggishly waddled along, then backfired from the rush of fuel. "It's different, thicker or something. Can't seem to get any speed."

 

 Appearing from a clump of bushes, a stickie holding the bedraggled body of a rat watched the long wag roll by and started after it hooting in delight.

 

 "Sinking?" Jak demanded, grabbing his backpack and jacket.

 

 "Not mud this time," Mildred said. "It's quicksand."

 

 Ryan muttered a curse. A tree branch wasn't going to work on that crap. If they halted to refuel, the wag would get jammed like a misfire in the ejector port. They couldn't stop for any reason.

 

 "Get that scope up here," he barked. "We need to find dry land, and I mean now."

 

 Quickly, Mildred got out of the way, and the Armorer went to the front of the wag, the Navy longeyes already in his grip. Fully extending the antique, J.B. scanned the landscape ahead of the struggling wag.

 

 "Don't go to the left. I think that's a lake," he reported. "More mud straight ahead on your twelve, but I see trees to the right. Not sure the bus can drive between the trunks they're so close, but that has to be solid ground."

 

 "Where?" Ryan asked, adjusting the clutch as the wag backfired again, even louder than before.

 

 "Mile, mebbe two. On your three."

 

 "See them."

 

 "Incoming," Dean said calmly, jacking the slide on his Browning. "We got a stickie on our tail."

 

 "Don't shoot it," Ryan ordered. "It may be able to reach us because we're moving so slow, but it can't get in. Too well armored."

 

 The boy nodded and put his blaster to a blasterport and tracked the approach of the humanoid creature. It caught the mired bus easily and began to hit the outside armor plating with its suckered hands, desperately trying to find a way in.

 

 "Heading for the rear door," Dean announced, the barrel of his Browning semiautomatic pistol never wavering. Just then, the handle jiggled and an inhuman face appeared in the grille-covered panel of the exit.

 

 "Shitfire. I need that window clear to see behind us," Ryan growled, fighting to alter the course of the vehicle toward the trees. "Ace it."

 

 The Browning barked once, and a hot brass casing kicked from the side of the blaster and hit the floor to roll away under the rows of seats.

 

 "He's gone," Dean stated.

 

 Ryan could only grunt in reply, both of his hands white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel. Ahead, he could see it was a real forest, just what they wanted. But a mob of stickies was forming between the trees and the companions, almost as if they understood what was happening.

 

 Checking over his LeMat, Doc looked in that same direction and blanched. There was an army coming their way, thirty, maybe forty of the muties.

 

 "Can we go around them, maybe refuel from inside?" Mildred asked, pulling a box of cartridges from her backpack and stuffing them into a pocket. "Rip up the floorboards or something."

 

 "That would only make us sink for sure," J.B. grumbled, thumbing rounds into the S&W M-4000 shotgun and laying it aside.

 

 "Gaia, look at them," Krysty said, staring out the dirty window. "The engine noise must be pulling in every stickie for miles. Mebbe the whole valley."

 

 "Could live here," Jak said, opening his Colt Python to check the rounds. Satisfied, he closed the cylinder with a gentle pressure so as not to damage the catch. "Wait for prey, like hellflowers and trapdoor spiders."

 

 "Lord, I hope not," Mildred replied, checking the load in her own weapon. "Because that would mean it works, and they eat regularly."

 

 Doc began to mutter in that strange singsong manner that meant he was quoting somebody from the past. '"Lieutenant Broadhead, I'm only an engineer. Here to build a bridge,"' the old man whispered hoarsely. '"What do I know about Zulu warriors?'"

 

 Finally pointed straight for the forest, Ryan scowled as he saw the stickies stop and just stand there, waiting for the bus to come to them. Was it possible that these swamp stickies were smarter than the ones in the Deathlands? They would find out any minute now.

 

 "Here they come," Ryan said, arms shaking as he controlled the bus.

 

 As the vehicle sloshed into the mob, the stickies parted and didn't attack as expected, but started to climb onto the wag, as if trying to drag it down by their sheer weight. Worst of all, it was working. The bus slowed even more, the engine temperature drastically rose and the wag sank deeper into the muck. The engine backfired again, then again, from the buildup of back pressure as the tailpipes became blocked by the quicksand.

 

 To the people inside, the noise sounded exactly like gunshots. The stickies went crazy, hooting loudly and beating the wag with their sucker-covered hands. In a matter of seconds, the bus was coated with them, a busty female hanging off the iron grid covering the front windshield, several walking on the roof, dozens of hands beating on the sheet steel blocking the side windows, making a rumbling noise like thunder. Two muties were tugging on the right-front access door, and several more rode the back bumper, hitting the grid-covered windows and exit door. Then the glass in a window shattered, and arms were thrust into the wag, eagerly searching for prey. But the jagged shards of glass ringing the frame sliced the limbs apart, fingers and suckers raining to the floor, and the stickies fought one another to pull themselves loose, which only worsened the damage.

 

 But with the glass gone, their calls became even louder. Mixed with the banging on the sheet metal it was deafening, and the companions couldn't talk to one another. As if sensing defeat of some kind, the muties redoubled the attack, smashing a headlight, ripping off the wiper blades and radio antenna, and bits of decorating molding went flying away.

 

 "They're testing our defenses," J.B. said, swinging the Uzi to point in every direction. The noise and the hooting masked their numbers, making the thirty sound like a hundred.

 

 "Smart," Doc rumbled, thumbing back the hammer on his piece.

 

 "Simple animal instinct," Mildred retorted. "Often, baboons do this sort of thing at zoos to tease the tourists."

 

 Ryan glared hatefully at the stickie clinging to the glass of his tiny ventilation window. Unable to shoot the thing on the windshield, Ryan hit the horn. The startled female dangling from the windshield dropped off and was run over by the wag. But then a furious male leaped upon the windshield to attack the man and was instantly impaled on the array of knives welded to the iron grid. The slick blades piercing every limb, the dying creature pumped out its life onto the dirty glass, effectively blocking Ryan's vision of the trees ahead. The one-eyed warrior knew that a crash was imminent, but there was no way he was going to slow.

 

 Savagely twisting the wheel back and forth, he sent the bus rocking side to side, the spikes on the tires slashing the legs of the muties running along, the crippled creatures falling, clutching at the damaged limbs. Several tumbled from the roof and landed on their brethren, or fell under the deadly wheels.

 

 But the smell of their own blood fed the madness of the muties, and the beating on the wag increased until there was a screech of tortured metal, and the sheet steel covering a side window was bent away. Multiple hands and faces moved over the predark glass searching for an opening. Now there was nothing between the humans and the mutants but a pane of safety glass more than a century old.

 

 "Blades first," Jak growled, a knife in each hand.

 

 "Indeed," Doc rumbled, holstering the LeMat and pulling the length of Spanish steel from its ebony sheath.

 

 As the safety glass shattered in a spray of tiny squares, Jak jerked both hands forward. Hooting in pain, two stickies beat at the knives sticking out of their faces and dropped away. Another tried to take their place, and Doc lunged at it, the sword slicing open its throat with surgical precision. Gushing blood, the invader dropped into the crowd. But more took its place, and other sections of sheet metal started bending away under the pressure of the enraged muties.

 

 Briefly, Dean looked at the case of Firebirds. If he could just get outside, the missiles would fly away and explode in the distance, drawing the mob away. But if he was stupe enough to launch a rocket from inside the bus, the backblast of exhaust would fill the wag and burn them alive. They had enough armament to stop a tank, and it was useless against some mud-covered stickies.

 

 Ryan could see the trees were close and tried to spot a path or something to use, but blood and flopping limbs of the aced mutie were making that nearly impossible. Once more, he tried for his blaster to blow off its head and get an unobstructed view. But the moment he let go, the bus veered to the side, and he was forced to use both hands to steer.

 

 By now, the stickies were all over the wag, their suction-cupped fingers playing with the windows and tugging on the doors. The companions stabbed at anything that came through the broken windows, the interior of the wag getting brighter with the removal of every panel of steel. Krysty tracked the ones on top with her blaster, but withheld firing. She wouldn't waste ammo on a guess.

 

 "Dumb ass bastard welder, couldn't weld for shit!" J.B. cursed, his hands tight on the grip of the Uzi.

 

 There was a crash from the rear of the bus, and the back door unexpectedly swung open. A young stickie was halfway through the small window, triumphantly holding the latch. It hooted in victory, and Dean blew it away. Then an adult swung in from the side and tried to climb over the stack of crates. From the far end of the wag, Doc fired the LeMat, the strident discharge of the hogleg seeming even louder in the confines of the bus. The stickie literally flew backward out the open doorway, its head a crushed mess.

 

 Scrambling through the supplies, Jak reached the door just as another mutie climbed inside. Spinning sideways, the teenager buried his combat boot into the mutie's stomach, driving it outside. Then grabbing the handle, Jak hauled the door shut and forced the locking bolt into place.

 

 "Too close," he grunted, flinching as a gob of quicksand was flung through the hole to splatter on the wall. Were the muties throwing that to blind the teenager? Just how smart were these things?

 

 "How the hell can they run through quicksand?" Dean demanded, ducking another gob sailing in through the busted side window.

 

 "Check the deader on the windshield," Krysty snapped. "It's got webbed feet, like snowshoes."

 

 Looking at the corpse, Mildred was amazed at the evolution of such a useful appendage.

 

 Once more the stickies tried for the broken windows, and the companions hacked away at the hairless limbs, fingers and mouthing suckers falling to the floor. Again and again, Doc thrust deeply with his sword, going for throats and bellies. Then a stickie grabbed the blade and wrestled it from his grip with surprising strength. The creature tried to escape with its prize, but Jak grabbed the arm and pinned it to a seat, while Doc tried to force open the stubby fingers to get back his blade. But the stubborn creature refused to relinquish the weapon, so Doc was forced to hack off the fingers with his belt knife to reclaim the sword. Shrieking, the creature tumbled off the bus, cradling its destroyed hand.

 

 Holding on to the luggage rack, J.B. went to the front of the wag. "Go faster," he urged.

 

 "Can't. Bastard engine is at the red line now," Ryan shot back. The gauges on the dashboard flashed in warning, and the wag was barely traveling twenty miles per hour. "I push any harder, it'll blow."

 

 "Then we start shooting," the Armorer said, and sent a burst through the access door. The muties fumbling with the portal were blown off in a shower of glass, blood going everywhere.

 

 In response, windows smashed on every side, and dozens of arms reached through to grab for the companions. A sucker-covered hand touched Mildred's med kit on a seat and pulled it to a window. The straps caught on the iron grid, and Mildred emptied her blaster outside until the stickie let go and the med kit dropped to the floor. She snatched it away and tossed it onto the luggage rack out of reach.

 

 But the deadly hands were everywhere, clawing for anything edible. In the rear, a Firebird was hauled away, and the plastic cover of a seat was ripped off, springs and foam padding bursting free from their tight confines. A canteen was taken, then an empty MRE envelope. The mutie attack was mindless, but unrelenting, and the companions raked the windows with blasterfire, hot lead tearing off chunks of the swamp dwellers. Mutie fingers and suckers rolling around loosely with the spent brass made walking tricky on the blood-streaked floor. A stickie got Krysty by the hair, and the woman cried out in agony as the creature tried to pull her along by the living filaments. Doc placed the LeMat on the thing's wrist and blew its hand off. Weakly, Krysty dropped to a seat, violently trembling, then slowly stood and began to fire again without regard for conserving ammo.

 

 Opening the side vent, Ryan blew the knee off one trying to crawl onto the hood. The mutie fell, thick blood streaking the polished metal. Reaching through the angled vent, Ryan tried to push off the deader on the grid and only managed to cut his arm in the process.

 

 Crouching, Ryan saw the trees were only yards away, and then he noticed a breach in the woods, a pathway that led into the cool greenery. He didn't give a damn where it went, as long as it was away from this nightmarish hellzone.

 

 A steady hammering could be heard above the blasterfire. Suddenly, the back door flew open and a stickie climbed into the bus. It tried to crawl over the stacks of supplies and failed, then began tossing the boxes of food and ammo outside to clear a path for the others right behind. Krysty fired twice, winging the creature in the shoulder, then Mildred triggered the shotgun, blowing the mutie to pieces and destroying several of the boxes in the process.

 

 "Close that door!" she bellowed, racking the slide.

 

 "Can't. It's gone," Dean replied, firing at a leg that creeped into view on the bumper. There was an answering hoot, and the wounded limb was withdrawn for the moment.

 

 "What mean, gone?" Jak demanded, thumbing fresh shells into his exhausted weapon. A stickie reached for the teen from behind, and J.B. put a burst from the Uzi into its face.

 

 "They tore it off!" he replied, dropping a clip to slap in a fresh magazine. "The door's a hundred feet away and sinking."

 

 "How many more are there?" Mildred asked urgently. "Anybody keeping count of the dead?"

 

 "Fifteen aced," Jak replied. "About ten more."

 

 "Mebbe twelve," J.B. added grimly.

 

 Pursing her lips, the physician used a word that her father the Baptist preacher used to pretend didn't even exist.

 

 "Can't let them whittle us down," Krysty said, her hair coiled tightly to her head to prevent further grabs. "Okay, we form a firing line, right here." Kneeling on the slaughterhouse floor, the woman pointed her weapon at the rear door. The others joined her in a cluster and waited, panting for breath.

 

 "On my command," Krysty said sternly.

 

 A stickie reached into the bus and paused, expecting to be attacked. When nothing happened, it dared to dart inside and paused, staring at the motionless humans. Then hooting loudly, it began to climb over the stacks of crates as more stickies swarmed into the vehicle. As the creatures got past the boxes, they charged up the aisle for the motionless people.

 

 "Eight," Krysty said, as the muties rushed closer, arms extended. "Nine, ten of them inside!"

 

 "That's the lot. Chill the fuckers!" J.B. shouted, cutting loose with the Uzi on full-auto, the compact machine pistol chattering on and on as he emptied a full clip into the massed targets.

 

 Doc and Jak threw thunder from their big-bore handcannons, misshapen heads exploding from every hit. Krysty and Dean maintained a steady discharge into the crowd with their blasters, as J.B. reloaded and rode the Uzi into a tight grouping. Holstering her .38, Mildred stood and used the shotgun, the flechette rounds tearing the muties into screaming hamburger, intestines slithering out of broken bodies, blood washing over the rubber mats in a tide of death.

 

 Pausing to reload, the companions stared into the swirling mists of acrid gunsmoke, waiting for the next wave of muties. But as the smoke cleared from the winds pouring in through the smashed windows, they saw only twitching bodies piled on the floor and seats. A motion under the seats caught Dean's attention, and, walking over, he knelt in the blood and fired a round into the head of the stickie trying to crawl away. It jerked once, then went still.

 

 "Two more on the roof," Ryan said, trying to switch on the defroster and drain some heat from the boiling engine.

 

 "Mine," Jak said, angrily scowling at the ceiling.

 

 Then the bus violently shook as it hit something under the bog, and started bumping along as if rolling over railroad tracks. Their speed increasing, the front end lifted clear and the vehicle drove out of the quicksand and onto solid ground.

 

 "We're out!" Ryan announced, slightly easing his hunched position behind the wheel.

 

 "Thank God," Mildred said, slumping into a chair.

 

 Dodging saplings and rocks, Ryan headed for the path, the off-balance tires shuddering from every irregularity in the ground. Stickies could be heard moving about and hooting loudly on the roof.

 

 "There's a road!" Krysty said, standing alongside the man, trying to look over the aced mutie. "Jog left!"

 

 Downshifting, Ryan twisted the steering wheel, and the rough vibrations smoothed. Predark pavement? Ryan hit the gas and the bus rapidly built speed as it raced along the cracked strip of old asphalt. Far behind, a couple of stickies ran out of the quicksand, but were quickly left behind in the dust.

 

 Muffled footsteps could be heard on the roof, and Jak tracked their progress with his weapon. "Still got them," he growled menacingly.

 

 "We're far enough away," J.B. said, holding on to the luggage rack to stay erect. "Might as well, slow down and refuel."

 

 "After we get rid of our uninvited guests," Doc said, shifting the fire selector pin of the handcannon to the shotgun round.

 

 "Especially this bastard," Ryan complained, bobbing his head to try to see around the bedraggled corpse on the windshield. Blood was still trickling from the multiple knife-blade wounds, and it was becoming impossible to see clearly. The wiper blades were long gone, causalities of the stickie attack.

 

 "I'll get him," Krysty offered and went to stand by the access door, a slim hand holding on to the chrome-plated pole, as she waited for the wag to stop.

 

 Just as Ryan started to downshift, he saw the fallen tree lying across the road ahead of them, a massive decaying log that a walking man could easily step over. But for the wag it was an impassable palisade. Chunks of rubble lined the predark road on both sides, giving him nowhere to turn, and with the tree trunk only yards away there was virtually no time to slow. Only one choice then.

 

 "Roadblock!" he yelled, standing on the brakes and throwing the gears into reverse. "Brace yourselves!"

 

 Instantly, the wag bucked as if hitting an invisible wall. Every loose item in the vehicle was thrown to the front, a deluge of bodies and boxes burying the companions. A pair of hooting muties flew off the roof and smashed into a tree, the bodies wrapping bonelessly around stout branches.

 

 Brakes squealing, engine roaring, the wag decelerated from fifty to thirty miles per hour in only seconds. Then the screeching transmission exploded from the strain of the reversal, the spinning gears tearing themselves apart and shotgunning out of the floor. Ryan fought the wheel as the speed dropped further, but it wasn't enough, and the wag slammed into the old tree, plowing through in an explosion of rotten wood. The collision sent the vehicle airborne for a few yards, then dropped to slam onto the asphalt in a resounding crash of crumpling metal and smashing glass. The radiator erupted into a geyser of steam, the axles broke apart and the spinning tires shot away.

 

 Still in motion from sheer inertia, the wreck threw off a spray of sparks from the chassis scraping along the rough surface of the roadway. Shuddering, jerking, clanging, the destroyed wag noisily ground to a halt a good fifty paces farther down the road.

 

 Only the steady ticking of hot metal slowly cooling broke the profound silence of the roadway.

 

  

 

 Chapter Fifteen

 

  

 

 Crouching sec men armed with knives and flintlocks stole toward the smoking ruins of the school bus.

 

 A trapped bubble of air rose from the quicksand lake to burst on the surface, sounding very much like a human cough. Condors flew high in the stormy sky above, and tropical birds twittered in the oak and birch trees of the nearby forest, waiting for the night when they could hunt. Darting from stone to weed, a rat scurried along the ground with an ear held triumphantly in its jaw. The tattered bodies of the fallen stickies were strewed along two miles of mud and quicksand, ending in the crumpled remains of the wrecked school bus. A column of smoke rose from the quietly burning engine, and the rear door was gone, showing piles of crates and more corpses inside.

 

 A short distance away, a dozen more soldiers sat on their horses with longblasters pressed to their shoulders, shiny new flint in every weapon and tense fingers on the triggers.

 

 "If there's a God still in heaven, hear my plea." a corporal whispered hoarsely. "Let the outlanders still live, so I may avenge my brother."

 

 Mitchum leaned over in his saddle and pressed the point of his knife to the sec man's throat. A drop of blood rose from the skin and flowed easily along the razor-sharp blade.

 

 "Don't speak again without my permission," Mitchum whispered, applying more pressure. The sec man inhaled sharply, craning back his head to keep from being cut. "Or I will wear you as boots. I learned many things as a prisoner of the cannies. Skinning a fool was only the beginning."

 

 "They killed my brother," the corporal said without moving his jaw. He could feel the warm blood flow down his throat. "Shot him in the back in cold blood. Want them bad."

 

 Mitchum studied the rage in the man's eyes and returned the blade to its sheath. "The man who died in the mountains with us," he said slowly. "Trying to outdraw the white-skinned man."

 

 "That was Cob, my older bro," the sec man grunted. "I'm Whyte."

 

 "Fair fight. I was there," the officer said out of the side of his mouth, now watching the troopers creep inside the bus. The men with longblasters got tense, leaning forward in anticipation to the brutal recoil of their black-powder weapons.

 

 "Don't care," Whyte snarled, looking up at the mounted officer, reaching for his own knife. "I want them!"

 

 Smoothly, Mitchum drew his blaster and slapped the corporal on the back of the neck just below the swell of the skull. Whyte didn't even gasp as he limply dropped to the ground. His hands dug at the pavement for a moment, then stopped, but his back rose and fell in the rhythm of life.

 

 "Anybody else speaks out of turn," Mitchum said softly, cocking back the hammer of his piece, "and he dies on the spot. Now drag this feeb away and remove the corporal stripes from his shirt. He's a private now."

 

 A private saluted the officer and hauled the unconscious trooper away just as a sec man appeared at the rear of the bus. He splayed an empty hand, closed it, then cut the air with a flat palm.

 

 "Scorch!" Mitchum spit angrily, and thumped his heels on the horse's rump to get it moving. Reaching the wreck, he slid off the animal and tethered the reins to a broken sapling. There were lots of them about, forming an orderly path that zigzagged to the vehicle. The driver had to have been dying or blind to hit so many.

 

 "Any sign they had been inside?" Mitchum demanded of the waiting sec men.

 

 The leader of the recce saluted. "Yes, sir. Lots of blood and spent brass is everywhere."

 

 "Must of been a hell of a fight," another man agreed. "There be bullet holes in the windows and roof."

 

 "A gangbang," the colonel stated gruffly. The swamp stickies had been doing a lot of that lately. Attacking in larger and larger groups to ace passing norms. Blasters weren't stopping them anymore.

 

 "Mebbe they are aced, sir," a corporal suggested, peeking in through a busted window frame. "And something dragged the bodies away. Lots of things will eat norm flesh that's black with rot, but never touch a fresh mutie corpse."

 

 "That's true," the sergeant agreed, kicking at some debris on the cracked pavement.

 

 Yes, it was possible, even likely, but Mitchum didn't trust such an easy answer. He wouldn't believe Ryan was dead until he saw the body and cut out its heart.

 

 "What about their possessions?" Mitchum demanded, walking around the twisted shell of the broken wag. "Are their backpacks or the rapidfires still inside?"

 

 "No, sir," a private answered. "We looked, but those are gone."

 

 "They're alive!" Mitchum growled, slamming a fist into the side of the bus, denting the weakened metal. Ryan and his people were alive and had escaped again. Animals might have dragged away the bodies, but not the blasters.

 

 "What a heap of dreck," a sergeant snorted in disgust. "Must of hit that log and gone flying. Shitfire, both axles are busted to pieces, and the engine block is cracked. Look at that oil spill! There's no way I could fix this wag. It was in better shape when we dug it out of those ruins."

 

 "Might be able to find a few parts that work," a private suggested, lifting a wheel-bearing assembly from one of the axles. It was slightly bent, but still should work. He tucked it into a pocket.

 

 "Stop that," Mitchum directed, going for his horse. "We'll scav for anything usable on the return. But first we find those rad-sucking outlanders and send them to Davey in pieces."

 

 Mounting his horse, he walked it to the middle of the roadway, watching the trees for snipers. Nothing was stirring, but he didn't relax. Something was terribly wrong here; he just didn't know what it was.

 

 "I want a recce of the whole area," Mitchum directed. "If they walked away, there'll be tracks. Sergeant, form three teams of five men. The outlanders are still alive, and we will find them!"

 

 "Yes, sir!" the sergeant replied with a smart salute.

 

 Then a voice shouted from inside the wag. "Hey, there's a pile of flintlocks in here, and they ain't even scratched!"

 

 "Any ammo?" another asked, walking closer.

 

 "Sure! Lots!"

 

 Battle instincts flared, and Mitchum spun in the saddle.

 

 "Don't touch those!" he bellowed. "It's a trap!"

 

 But the warning was too late. A sec man cried out as something inside the bus burst into a sizzling chem spray. There followed a small explosion, then a roaring whoosh as flames filled the bus, stretching out the windows and doorways to completely engulf the vehicle in a rapidly expanding fireball.

 

 "They boobied the fuel!" a man shrieked as a burning wave of shine blew him out the door, clothes and hair instantly bursting into flames.

 

 Desperately covering his face, Mitchum dropped behind his horse for protection as the hellstorm washed over the group of startled sec men, igniting them like greasy torches.

 

 The conflagration consumed the entire area, the growing flames reaching to the trees, and the screams of the dying men seemed to last forever.

 

 PUSHING THEIR WAY through the dense greenery, Ryan stopped as Krysty whirled to look behind them.

 

 "Trouble?" he asked, grabbing his blaster.

 

 "They found the booby," she said. "I pity them."

 

 "Fuck 'em," Jak snarled, limping along. A tree branch had been cut into a crude crutch, and the teenager was stiffly hobbling along, his face a mask of barely contained fury.

 

 Hoisting her med kit, Mildred didn't blame him for being angry. A barrel of shine had fallen on his leg in the crash, giving the teenager a sprained ankle. She had wrapped it tight with wet strips of cloth that would tighten as they dried. Not much, but it was the best she could do. The sprain had to be very painful, but the teenager didn't complain. Mildred had two aspirins she was holding in reserve until nightfall to help him get to sleep. But the more he walked, the worse it would feel.

 

 "Hated to use all of my plas in one shot," J.B. said, removing his hat to wipe off the sweatband with a handkerchief. Then he set the fedora back in place. "But once the wag was broke, that aced the plan of trading it for a ship at Cascade."

 

 "Hope it got them all," Dean said grimly, rubbing his sore ribs. Nothing was broken, but he had a lot of painful bruises.

 

 "I think we can count on some of the sec men surviving," Ryan said, "and that soon these hills will be crawling with troops."

 

 "Can stop reporting back," Jak said, dragging a thumb dramatically across his throat.

 

 "Ace that. We want them to report to the local baron," Ryan explained. "He'll send out troops to hunt for us, and we'll sneak into the ville tonight and steal a boat."

 

 "Dangerous," Krysty said, taking out her canteen and drinking deeply. "But it should work. Surprise will be on our side."

 

 "No other options," Ryan said grimly. They were strangers in enemy territory, with every hand turned against them. Back in the Deathlands, rapidfires offered a man some degree of protection; here they were a death warrant.

 

 "Needs drive where the devil must," Doc rumbled cryptically. "We didn't start this conflict, but by God we shall finish it!"

 

 "I just want to leave," Ryan said, checking the clip in his handblaster. "Not interested in starting a war. Too many of them, and we're low on ammo. I have twelve rounds for the SIG-Sauer. Two mags of five for the Steyr."

 

 "Four," Jak said, patting the blaster on his hip. "And lost knife stickie fell out window."

 

 "Three rounds," Krysty said. "And one is a black-powder reload that might not work."

 

 "Two," Mildred said.

 

 "Nine," Dean announced proudly. "Full clip."

 

 "Uzi is out," J.B. stated. "Six rounds for the scattergun."

 

 Fireblast! They wasted a ton of precious ammo in the fight with the stickies. At least they still had most of their food and water. "How much farther to the ville?"

 

 Pulling out a sextant, J.B. shot the sun and did some quick calculations. Then he carefully unfolded a map. Found in a redoubt, it was old and faded, the plastic coating worn thin in spots, but the priceless antique was still readable.

 

 "Dark night, I have no idea where we are," he complained, looking upward to scowl at the sun partially hidden by storm clouds. "According to my map, we're half a mile in the ocean."

 

 "Nuke quakes must have moved the island," Krysty said.

 

 "So we're lost," Mildred stated with a frown.

 

 "Pretty much," he said, tucking the sextant inside his shirt. "We know the ville is somewhere close, and to the south. That's it."

 

 Pulling out his compass, J.B. checked the direction. "And south should be that way," he pointed. "Toward those big trees with the flower— Hey!"

 

 Everybody waited expectantly while J.B. stared at his compass. "There it is again," he muttered.

 

 "What?" Dean asked, craning his neck to see.

 

 He showed the boy. "Every couple of seconds, the compass needle flicks to the west. Something electrical that way," J.B. stated, looking at the dense greenery to their right. "Something big and still in operation."

 

 "A pulsating magnetic field," Mildred said thoughtfully. "If Cascade had an airport before, it could be the ILM beacons for the landing field."

 

 "Not south, west," Jak said, leaning against a tree and massaging his armpit where the crutch had been rubbing.

 

 Listening to the sounds of the forest, Ryan slowly said, "It's got to be close. The atmosphere is so fucked up with rads that mag fields can't reach very far. A mile or so, at the most."

 

 "Beacon is a sort of radio?" Dean asked.

 

 Still studying the compass, J.B. nodded. "Yes."

 

 "Very close, then," Krysty agreed, her hair fanning outward. "And the landing field should be far away from the buildings. The ville may not even know it's there."

 

 "Could be a good place to rest," Mildred added.

 

 Jak shot her an angry look, then relented and shrugged. He was a crip at the moment. Only a stupe would deny it.

 

 "Sounds good. Dean, think you can climb one of these," Ryan asked, thumping the trunk of a mutated oak, "and get us a recce?"

 

 The boy studied the tree closely. "Sure," he stated, and dropped his backpack to the ground. Tightening his belt, the boy started shimmying up the thick trunk and disappeared into the foliage.

 

 "Anything?" his father shouted.

 

 "Nothing yet!" came back the answer. "Wait a minute."

 

 The companions drew closer to the tree, hands on their weapons in case of trouble. A minute passed, then several, their expressions began to turn worried.

 

 "Dean?" Krysty called gently through cupped hands.

 

 But only the rustle of leaves responded, a few colorful birds taking flight from the dense overhang of greenery.

 

 "I'm going after him," Ryan declared, passing the Steyr to the redhead. Dropping his backpack, the man grabbed a low limb and chinned himself off the ground just as Dean dropped through the leaves to land sprawling in the bushes.

 

 "Plane," the boy said standing, his face bright with excitement. "Think I found a plane!"

 

 "In the air?" Mildred asked in concern, scanning the sky through the holes in the sylvan canopy. It was one of her biggest worries. Even worse than a runaway plague. Anybody who got a powered airplane into the sky could seize absolute control of the Deathlands. There were few enough weapons working these days, and nothing that would challenge a skyfighter. Even an old box kite like the Wright brothers made for the U.S. government to use in World War I and some black-powder bombs would be enough. Just the threat of death from above would make most villes surrender automatically. The destruction of the world from the sky bombs had burned a very real fear of aerial attacks into the very souls of the human survivors.

 

 Dean shook his head. "No, just caught in the branches. About a mile away. Big one. Looks intact."

 

 "Useless," Krysty said. "If it's visible, it's been looted."

 

 The boy shook his head. "No way you could find it from the ground. Got to be high to see it."

 

 There was a pause. "I think," he added honestly.

 

 "Even crumbling walls can offer shelter," Doc offered as comment.

 

 "An airplane," Ryan muttered, rubbing his chin. "Same direction as the pulse?"

 

 "Yes, Dad."

 

 "Remember what the Trader taught us about crashed planes," J.B. said, patting his empty Uzi machine pistol.

 

 "Just what I was thinking," the Deathlands warrior said, almost grinning. Shelter or not, there could be salvage. Blasters, ammo, food, hidden sagely away where nobody would ever find them. Lots of things they needed.

 

 "Let's check it out," Ryan said, and started pushing a path through the tangled growth.

 

 GROANING SOFTLY, Whyte awoke to a pounding headache and the stink of burning flesh. Almost immediately, there was a violent explosion, and something fell alongside the sec man with a thump. As his vision cleared, Whyte saw it was a dead stickie with a gaping hole in its bleeding chest. The mutie worked its suckers a few times as if fighting for life, then went still.

 

 Hastily scrambling away, the sec man drew his own blaster and scanned the area for more of the muties. There were none, but he gasped upon seeing the smoking remains of a huge explosion.

 

 The bus was spread wide open, resembling a metal flower that had been set on fire. Thick black smoke from the chassis was curling high into the overcast sky. The charred remains of norms and horses lay strewed across the asphalt, many of the bodies in pieces as if torn apart by wild animals.

 

 After a moment, he realized it had to be from their ammo pouches detonating when the men were set on fire from the explosion. Cooked alive, then blown in two. Black dust, what a bad way to get aced. Wasn't even quick.

 

 "A bastard trap," Whyte growled angrily. "Triple damn the outlanders. I'll make them pay."

 

 "Over here!" a voice called.

 

 Spinning, Whyte cocked back the hammer on his big flintlock. But only the dead were in sight, skins burned black, hair gone and clothing reduced to a layer of ash over the charred remains. Then he noticed a smoking blaster being waved from behind the sprawled body of a cooked horse. Approaching carefully, the sec man went around the chilled animal to discover Colonel Mitchum on the ground, his legs pinned under the beast from the knees down.

 

 "Get this off me!" Mitchum ordered brusquely, wriggling.

 

 "Yes, sir," Whyte replied, and grabbed the reins. But as he pulled they broke apart, the leather straps severely weakened from the firestorm.

 

 "Get a longblaster," the colonel directed. "Shove it underneath and I can drag myself out. Hurry! My legs went numb an hour ago."

 

 "Gotcha," Whyte said, rummaging around until he found a flintlock rifle that hadn't been blown apart when its ammo cooked off from the heat. Carefully shoving the barrel under the limp beast, Whyte shoved hard upward and the half ton of deadweight slowly lifted off the ground.

 

 Grunting from the exertion, Mitchum wriggled free, leaving his boots trapped under the beast, and rolled away. Whyte released the rifle and let the carcass drop.

 

 "It was you," the sec man said awkwardly. "You shot that stickie coming for me."

 

 "Of course," Mitchum growled, massaging his legs and bare feet. With the return of circulation, pins and needles were making his legs tingle painfully and he rode out the return of feeling, not daring to move an inch.

 

 "You saved my life," Whyte said, feeling angry and confused at the same time.

 

 "Had to," Mitchum said, trying to stand and surprised to find that he could. His legs were throbbing like drums, but strength was returning faster than expected. Excellent. First good thing that had happened on this accursed island in months.

 

 "You saved my life 'cause we're fellow sec men," Whyte said in an unaccustomed rush of pride. "Sir, I…I…"

 

 "I shot the mutie because I needed you to move the fucking horse," the colonel snapped, pulling the Colt Woodsman .22 from his belt. "Thanks, feeb."

 

 As Whyte gasped, Mitchum emptied the tiny revolver into the sec man. The small slugs drove the trooper backward, but he was still standing when they stopped coming. Blood soaking his shirt and pants, Whyte fought for breath as he tried to draw his own blaster, but the weapon dropped from nerveless fingers.

 

 "Also needed your boots," Mitchum said as he calmly picked up the fallen weapon and finished the job.

 

 Shoving the massive .75 flintlock into his belt, the colonel then tossed away the useless predark revolver. Five rounds and the man had still been standing. What kind of a shitty weapon was that?

 

 Stripping the warm corpse of footwear, blaster and ammo, the colonel got dressed and reloaded the hot blaster. Then he proceeded to search among the dead for what supplies and additional weapons he could find. When he was finished, the sec chief had a little food and no water, but a good knife, two handcannons, a single longblaster, plus plenty of shot and lead. More than enough.

 

 "Now it's your turn, Ryan," Mitchum muttered as he stumbled into the forest, searching the ground for the tracks of the hated outlanders.