Moonfeast (18 page)

“Mildred, you sure this place was fully operational,” Ryan demanded, “and not just a mock-up, like one of those displays in a museum?”

“Everything worked,” she stated with conviction. “That was the only way for the SEALs to rehearse an operation.”

“Okay, then, a plumbing store would be the best, I reckon,” Ryan decided, looking down each of the streets
of the intersection. If there had been any signs, they were long gone, consumed by the acid rains or ripped away by tropical storms. “After that a hotel or laundry would do fine.”

“A laundry?” Doc asked quizzically, then nodded. “Because of the industrial water heaters needed, of course.”

“How about an air plant?” Krysty said out of the blue, riding around a blast crater in the street. At the bottom of the depression was a gigantic diesel engine, a small bush starting to grow around the smashed slab of technology.

“That’ll do fine,” J.B. said with a growing smile.

As the companions rode toward the building, the monkeys followed along, jumping from roof to roof, scampering between the parked cars, always in motion, always trying to get closer.

Guiding their horses into the empty parking lot, the companions managed to leave the monkeys behind, the vast expanse of cracked asphalt offering the creatures nowhere to safely hide. There were a couple of big rigs at the other end of the lot, a Mack truck and a flatbed Fleetwood, parked near a fuel pump. But they were too far away to be used as cover.

Sliding off his horse, Ryan passed the reins to Krysty and pulled out his Navy telescope to check inside the building.

“Clear,” he announced, compacting the device once more. “Krysty and Doc, stay with the horses, everybody else with me. Watch your six. These little rad suckers mean business.”

“Me, too,” Jak growled, hefting the M-16 rapidfire.

Taking the point position, Ryan eased up a short flight of concrete steps to the loading dock and then inside the cavernous building.

The interior was thickly coated with dust, which the companions took as a good thing, since it showed there hadn’t been any recent monkey activity in here. Filling the cavernous room were row after row of compressed air cylinders, each standing six feet tall and topped with a brass valve. Hundreds of the cylinders were still connected to the overhead feeder lines, flexible hoses snaking down from a rigid main line. Every few yards there was a safety valve, or a pressure meter, to check for leaks. Fire extinguishers were everywhere. A lot of other equipment stood around, hulking machines covered with dials and gauges.

Dimly, Mildred remembered seeing a news report about a fire at a compressed-air plant. The company not only sold compressed air, but also medical tanks full of pure hydrogen, pure oxygen and nitrogen. The blaze exploded the hydrogen tanks, and the oxygen fed the flames until the nitrogen tanks popped their valves on top. Weighing no more than a hundred pounds, but charged with two thousand pounds of compressed gas, the cylinders took off like rockets, zooming randomly in every direction, smashing through brick walls and people with equal ease. The death toll had been staggering, and several of the flying bottles had finally come to rest almost a full mile away, usually in the wreckage of a house.

“Careful of what you shoot,” Mildred warned. “One bullet in the wrong place and we could all be blown to kingdom come.”

Pushing aside a set of double doors, Ryan paused as they swung out of the way, then broke off from the corroded hinges and slammed to the concrete floor with a deafening crash. That brought a chorus of screaming from the dozens of monkeys hidden behind the bottles, and they scampered away, one brave soul pausing to spit venom at the two-legs before joining the others.

As the globule of deadly saliva smacked into the cinder-block wall nearby, J.B. swung up the Uzi, but withheld firing. If any of those bottle was still charged, the 9 mm Parabellum rounds could start a chain reaction of gaseous explosion that would level the building, as well as the companions.

Squinting into the gloom, Jak flicked a butane lighter alive, then walked to a sign and blew off the dust to read that it was the hydrogen charging line. Quickly he released the lighter and backed away.

“Need light or they ace,” the teenager warned.

“That’s the plan!” J.B. muttered, and opened fire with the Uzi. The small windows set along the top of the walls exploded under the assault of the chattering machine pistol, the rain of glass heralding an infusion of sunlight. As the falling shards shattered among the rows of cylinders stacked in the corners, the companions heard monkey screams, and a host of bloody forms darted out of the shadows to race away, clutching their ghastly wounds.

As the reverberations faded away, there came a sharp whistle, and Ryan waved the others closer. Located behind a locked iron grille was the repair shop for the air plant, the shelves stacked full of spare parts for the
compressors, meters, gauges, feeder lines and pressure regulators.

“Jackpot!” J.B. grinned and got out his tool to trick open the lock.

While the rest of the companions stood guard, Ryan and J.B. moved along the shelves, taking what they needed, as well as some additional items.

“Teflon tape, plumber’s dope, liquid weld. Nuking hell, what a find!” J.B. chortled in delight, packing his munitions bag full. “I haven’t seen a find like this since that salt dome city in New Mex.”

“Here’s the real prize,” Ryan said, lifting a tapering valve into view. “Adapters. With these we can connect anything to damn near anything. The boat is as good as fixed.”

“Thank God.” Mildred exhaled. “I was starting to think that we might never get off this accursed rock.”

“Once we’re back on the mainland, we can trade these for a month of bed and food at any ville,” J.B. added, tucking away a Stilton wrench. Dimly, he recalled that his father used to call the huge tool a monkey wrench. There was some sort of irony at work there, but the details of it escaped him at the moment.

In the distance, a monkey popped up on top of a cylinder. A few flecks of red paint still adhering to the sides marked it as containing pressurized hydrogen. Bringing up the rapidfire, Jak withheld firing. The tiny animal chattered angrily and ducked back out of sight. The fragging muties were starting to understand that the norms wouldn’t shoot at the gas tanks.

“Time to go,” Jak stated, flexing his hand. A knife dropped into his palm and he flipped it forward.

With a meaty thud, the blade slammed deep into the chest of a monkey, driving the animal off the bottle and out a window.

Knocked off balance, the cylinder toppled to hit another cylinder, which fell into a group of them, the clanging and banging sounding louder than a thousand church bells.

As the companions started for the exit, the cylinders continued to topple over like dominoes, the chaos spreading like wildfire. A dozen valves were snapped off cylinders to no result, then one shattered. A long hissing rush of a pale yellow gas spread out in a roiling cloud. A scampering monkey darted into the cloud and stopped dead as if hitting a brick wall. Shuddering, it collapsed to the floor, bloody foam bubbling from the slack mouth.

“That’s sulfur dioxide!” Mildred cursed, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Hold your breath. Don’t breathe until we’re safely outside.”

Doing as they were told, the companions backed away, trying to skirt the billowing cloud. But rolling around on the floor, propelled by the hissing exhaust, the canister collided with a score of other cylinders, sending them falling. More valves snapped off, one canister hissing loudly for only a few seconds before becoming exhausted. But another twirled madly in ever-increasing speed, the stream of compressed oxygen roaring upward like a geyser. Then it tilted over and streaked across the floor to crash through the cinder-block wall, leaving a gaping hole a yard wide.

Another six-foot bottle scraped along the floor, throwing off bright sparks as it headed straight for the
companions. But before they could move, it ran out of compressed argon and stopped in the middle of the room, gently rocking back and forth.

In the overhead rafters, the monkeys were howling and screaming, throwing down light bulbs and the occasional wad of feces. The companions answered with a long barrage of blaster fire, and a score of riddled bodies fell to the charging floor, knocking over more bottles and releasing even more clouds of compressed gas. Then the ancient feeder line broke, and all of the charging hoses came free, the insulated lengths slashing wildly.

Screeching, a monkey dived out of the shadows to land on J.B.’s shoulder. Instantly the man angled his head, putting the fedora between him and the little animal. Preparing to spit, it paused in confusion for a moment, and Mildred stepped in close to discharge the ZKR into its face. The tiny head exploded, and the decapitated monkey tumbled away, gushing a torrent of red life.

Unexpectedly, several large squat canisters in the corner of the room violently erupted. The bluish contents sprayed upward, washing across a score of gibbering monkeys. The animals went motionless, then toppled to the floor and shattered into pieces like glass figurines.

“Liquid nitrogen,” Mildred identified as a bitter wave of arctic cold swept through the building. Frost started to rapidly spread across items in the plant, slickly coating everything.

“Time to leave!” Ryan yelled, spinning fast. But he
paused at the sight of the deadly sulfur dioxide cloud cutting off the only avenue of escape.

Just then, the support beams for the ceiling gave a hideous groan and broke apart. The ceiling sagged, then cracked, the divide yawning wide and knocking several monkeys off the rafters and into the subzero cloud. They screamed for only a microsecond, then went horribly silent and came apart, the last beat of their freezing hearts breaking them into ghastly chunks.

Loudly snapping, the steel-reinforced girders splintered, great chunks of icy steel, hoses, conduits and light fixtures crashing onto the cracking floor, sending even more pressurized cylinders tumbling in wild abandon.

Shivering with the cold, the companions quickly retreated into the storage room, as the entire manufacturing plant began to crumble, the two lethal gas clouds relentlessly headed their way.

An unseen hand jerked away the canvas bag covering his head, and Beltrane blinked a few times to adjust his sight, and try to see who had jacked him in the middle of the night. However, the small room was filled with impossibly bright lights that formed a sort of haze, making it impossible for him to see where he was, or who else was in the room.

“Please,” Beltrane whispered, tears running down his cheeks. “I can’t see…”

“That’s the whole idea,” a gruff voice said, a vague figure standing behind the ring of alcohol lanterns. “If you can’t see us now, then you couldn’t in the past, and take steps to prevent this from happening. Savvy?”

Nodding, the doomie weakly struggled against the ropes lashing him to the wooden chair. But there were too many, and they were too strong. The brief exertion made Beltrane feel dizzy and he almost became sick, but somebody forced open his mouth and poured down some shine, the soothing brew easing his discomfort.

But the odd dizziness continued, and slowly the doomie began to comprehend that he wasn’t ill. The room actually was moving. Straining to hear past the hiss of the ring of lanterns, Beltrane could dimly discern a thumping sound and guessed that he was on a boat of some kind. That sent a shiver down his spine.
Coldhearts in the night, plus a boat, could mean only one thing.

Carrying a chair, a figure stepped past the haze of light and sat only a few feet away. “So you’re the doomie of Radar ville,” the newcomer said, crossing his arms.

“Yes, I am, Captain Carlton,” Beltrane answered.

The figure leaned in closer. “You know who I am?”

“Of course,” Beltrane sighed, sagging against his bounds. “I have known for years that you would come for me someday. I also knew that resisting would only get my friends aced, so I told them nothing and accepted my fate.”

“Mutie shit,” Carlton said, snorting in disbelief. “If you’re that good, then—”

“We are on a tiger,” Beltrane stated. “Correct?”

There was a pause. “The
Tiger Shark
,” Carlton corrected, impressed in spite of his natural reticence. “All right, doomie, I’m finally convinced that you’re the real thing and not some faker merely trying to escape a work detail.”

Beltrane shrugged in response. Sometimes there were no right words to say.

“So, answer me this,” Carlton said, lighting a cig and deeply inhaling the dark smoke.

“The outlanders are surrounded by ringing bells,” the little doomie said without prompting. “I do not know if they will escape the death clouds or the teeth that jump.”

“Teeth that jump…they’re in Delta!” Digger snarled,
stepping into the light. “Nuking hell, I know those ruins. They’re infested with jumpers, millions of them!”

Flicking the ash off his cig, Carlton said nothing, but highly doubted the accuracy of such a number. But the absolute fervor of the man said that there had to be a lot of the little monkeys there. Hundreds, possibly thousands. This news changed everything, and the captain quickly amended his plans for a nightcreep, into one for an ambush.

“So tell me, what are they doing in the ruins?” Carlton asked, puffing steadily. “Food, brass, or something else?”

In spite of the blinding light, Beltrane looked directly at the captain. “They seek the heart of the running moon.”

The running moon…what the frag did that mean? Snapping his fingers, Carlton put out an open hand, and a sec man slapped a roll of heavy paper into his palm. “And where is the moon running?” Carlton said, spreading out the map of the island.

With a trembling hand, Beltrane placed a finger squarely on the hidden lagoon outside the ville of the screamers.

“Are you sure?” Carlton pressed. “Absolutely?”

Solemnly, Beltrane nodded, then knowing what was to come next, added, “Nothing will chill you, Captain.”

Already in the act of drawing his blaster, the captain stopped for a moment. “Come again,” Carlton demanded.

“Nothing will chill you!” Beltrane shouted, breaking into wild laughter.

The sound was unnerving, and after a few minutes Carlton decided there would be no more intel coming from the mutie, and pulled the trigger to blow out his brains.

As the limp body slumped to the deck of the cargo barge, the captain holstered his piece and stood to leave. But the disquieting words of the doomie kept echoing inside his mind.
Nothing will chill you.
What exactly did that mean, anyway?

C
LANGING, BANGING
, crashing and colliding, the chaotic pressurized containers started zooming around the building smashing into everything as the wave of ice swept steadily closer to the companions huddled in the supply room. Overhead, screaming monkeys raced along the rafters seeking an avenue of escape, a steady rain of the bodies plummeting down to smack into the cracking floor with horrid results.

“Fireblast, we’ve got no choice,” J.B. cursed, glancing at the thinning cloud of poison gas blocking the only possible exit. Yanking out his implo gren, the man yanked the pin and released the arming lever. “Get ready to run!”

With all of his strength, J.B. threw the gren across the building, slamming it into a splintering support beam to angle away and land just past the swirling cloud of sulfur dioxide. There came a musical ting, a bright flash of light and the companion held on for dear life as a tremendous reverse hurricane suddenly filled the plant as the implosion sucked everything toward the rear of the building.

Hundreds of monkeys, aced and alive, went flying
by, the pressurized bottles tumbled away, shards of frozen steel lancing through the air like a barrage of jagged spears. Broken pieces of the floor, crumbling sections of the ceiling, tools, hoses and spent brass, all vanished into the microsecond singularity of the reverse quantum event. Only the deadly wave of liquid nitrogen ice on the floor proved unstoppable.

In a heartbeat, the sulfur dioxide cloud was gone, sucked away completely, and the desperate companions exploded out of the room to insanely charge through the maelstrom, impelled by the ferocious wind. But halfway there, the winds died and the companions abruptly changed course to dive out the exit and painfully land in the parking lot.

“Gaia, what happened in there?” Krysty demanded, one hand holding the M-16, the other holding the reins of two terrified horses.

With the Webley out and ready, Doc was holding the reins for the other three animals. All of the horses were whimpering and trying to pull away, but the man and woman held on tight, the tendons standing out in their arms from the effort.

“We…survived…” Ryan croaked, his words misty in the cold air.

Turning to glance over a shoulder, Mildred wasn’t surprised to see the entire air plant crumbling apart, sections collapsing upon itself, cylinders dully exploding, the painful shrieks of the trapped monkeys rising in pitch and timbre, then stopping completely.

“As Doc likes to say,” Mildred panted, holding a stitch in her side. “I have had fun before—”

“And this fragging ain’t it,” J.B. finished grimly,
yanking his hat out of the sleeve of his leather jacket and starting to beat it back into shape.

“Never doing again,” Jak declared, mentally carving the words into stone. “Saw farm, just barely not buy.”

“Amen to that, brother,” Ryan said in an unaccustomed rush of feeling.

“This cost us a damn implo gren,” J.B. growled, setting the battered fedora back into place. “But at least we got the parts!”

“Enough to fix the
Moon Runner?
” Doc asked hopefully.

“Enough to fix anything.” The man grinned back.

“Superlative, John Barrymore!” Doc boomed, slapping the man on the back. “Then let us make haste, Hermes, and leave this modern-day Gahanna before once more the gates of Hell yawn open for our immortal souls!”

“It’s a rad pit, sure enough,” Ryan agreed, taking the reins of his mare and stiffly climbing into the saddle. As the horse shifted her stance to accommodate his weight, the one-eyed man quickly reloaded his weapons.

Kicking their mounts into action, the companions trotted along the old street. Monkeys were still racing away from the building, many of them minus arms or tails. As the frozen limbs warmed, the stumps began to profusely bleed, and the animals sagged to the ground, whimpering into death.

“Heard people come from monkeys. True?” Jak asked with a scowl.

“Good Lord, no.” Mildred chuckled. “Humans came from primates. Those are entirely different from monkeys.”

“How?” the teenager asked curiously.

Biting a lip, Mildred tried to boil down the genetic differences. “We’re smarter,” she said lamely, too tired to explain fully.

“Plus, we have a divine soul,” Doc added unexpectedly. “I never could fully understand why creationists and evolutionists didn’t get along. Why not go with the theory that primates evolved naturally, and then the Lord gave them souls, creating us into His own image?”

“Her own image,” Krysty corrected politely.

Arching an eyebrow, Doc started to speak, then changed his mind. The three things you should never discuss with a friend were how to worship, how to break up with a lover and how to go to hell.

Behind the companions, the building continued to crumble back into its components parts, the rumbling destruction spreading to the structures on either side, glass shattering and wood splintering louder than cannons. Slowly a dust cloud formed from the destruction, rising above the city as if it had just been hit with a baby nuke.

“Shit,” Jak drawled, giving the word several syllables. “Gotta admit, not think ever seen…” Suddenly he pointed to the right. “Nuking hell, a rhino!”

Everybody turned sideways at that and bitterly cursed.

Standing in the middle of the road was one of the armored muties. Its boxy head was bent low, and it seemed to be feasting on the pile of monkeys that the companions had aced earlier. However, at the man’s cry, the beast looked up from the food, a fuzzy arm
dangling from its massive jaws. It’s piggy eyes narrowed in recognition, and the beast lurched forward, lowering the armored horns for a chilling strike.

“Fireblast, where’s the nearest river?” Ryan started when Krysty interrupted him.

“Head for the garage!” she yelled, wheeling the horse around and taking off in a new direction.

With pause, the rest of the companions immediately followed while trying to ignore the heavy thumping of the approaching rhino.

Galloping around a corner, the riders headed for a predark car garage. Five stories tall, it was made of concrete, with open sides for ventilation from the exhaust fumes. Ryan scowled at the building. They often used such places as a refuge from the acid-rain storms, but what possible use could it be against the living tank in hot pursuit he had no bastard idea whatsoever.

“John, the gate!” Mildred cried out, leveling a finger.

Nodding in understanding, J.B. swung up the scattergun and cut loose a blast. The wooden barrier blocking the entrance exploded into splinters, and the companions charged into the dark interior.

“Left ramp!” Krysty commanded, ducking her head under a sign whose lettering had faded over the years. Dimly, she thought it had to have warned about the height of the ramps, no conversion vans allowed, over eight feet, that sort of thing. Briefly, she wondered if the rhino would be too big to get up the sloped concrete, then banished that feeble dream. The mutie was big, a lot larger than a normal rhino, but not so fragging large that it couldn’t follow them anywhere that the horses
could ride. If the companions were riding motorcycles it might be a different story, but for the moment, their best hope was to reach the roof as fast as possible. Then it would just be a matter of timing.

As they took the curve around onto the second floor, the companions found it full of windblown trash, with full bushes growing out of piles of dirt that had accumulated over the years. What few wags remained were sagging piles of rust, or sleek, shiny fiberglass bodies sitting on top of rotting tires. One limousine was still airtight, the desiccated driver with both hands on the wheel, a jaunty cap on his head and earphones dangling from the holes where his shriveled ears had once been located. In the backseat was another mummified corpse wearing the white uniform of an admiral, the dried figure of a woman with shockingly blonde hair resting in his lap. The details of the situation were plainly obvious, and the companions briefly smiled, then there came a stentorian roar from below, and the whole building seemed to shake as the rhino started up the ramp, the slamming of its feet sounding like the pistons of a powerful engine.

Hitting the third floor at a full gallop, the companions found a row of motorcycles parked in a neat line along the wall. As they raced by, the first bike fell over, slamming into the second, mirrors smashing, windshields loudly cracking. Then the third bike flipped over, starting a chain reaction that almost reached the next ramp before the racing horses did.

Unfortunately there was a wreck blocking the ramp. The companions managed to squeeze by along the side,
but the delay cost them precious seconds. The savage pounding from below was dangerously closer now.

“How many pipe bombs do we have left?” Krysty demanded, bent low over the neck of her horse, her red hair sailing out behind exactly like the mane of the animal.

“Not enough to chill this bastard!” J.B. replied.

“Prep a couple of pipe bombs!” Ryan ordered, suddenly understanding why the woman had directed them into the garage.

“Only got two!”

“Use them both!” Fireblast, it was a daring plan, and not one he would have suggested, but there was no other choice at this point.

From the level below, the rhino bellowed in rage, its snorts as loud as a huffing steam engine. Each powerful step shook the old garage more, the light fixtures swinging freely, dust raining down in a gritty cloud.

As the companions erupted onto the roof, Krysty promptly wheeled her horse around and started back down the opposite ramp. She wanted speed, but was forced to slow her mount to prevent the animal from breaking a leg on the sloped concrete. A spill now would mean death. It was as simple as that.