Tainted Cascade (6 page)

Walking along, Mildred was lost in thought. The journal contained all of the secrets of the Deathlands—her story of being frozen in a cryogenic tube, how to fight a droid, villes to avoid, friendly barons. But most importantly, it told about the redoubts and the code to get inside, past the nukeproof doors! There was some small solace that she had written vital information in code, purely as a safety precaution. But it wasn't that tough of a code to break, and in the right hands, the secret of the redoubts could become common knowledge, and the companions would lose their greatest asset. Why in hell had she ever started the journal anyway? Once, it had seemed like a good idea, her legacy for the future to help others rebuild civilization. Now, it seemed like the most stupid idea in the history of the world, short of the invention of the nuclear bomb.

“Don't worry, Millie, we'll get your med bag back,” J.B. said, misinterpreting her worried expression. The man patted her arm and grinned. “I'll bet that I'm just
as nuking hot over them taking my fedora as you are about those medical supplies.”

“Of course we will, John.” She smiled back, her stomach a knot of fear.

Reaching the second wag, the companions checked over the team of horses first and were delighted to find the animals in good condition. Checking over the horses, Ryan found several with scarring along the outside of their mouths, showing that they had once been saddled and reined.

“If we recover the tack from the horses of those outriders we aced, we're back in business,” Krysty said, patting the muscular neck of a chestnut gelding. The horse nickered in reply to the gentle touch and nuzzled her cheek with its hot, wet nose.

“Indeed, dear lady, if only we knew which direction to take,” Doc rumbled, looking over the sylvan landscape to the forest on the horizon.

“Just follow trail of wags,” Jak stated confidently, pointing at the ruts in the grass from the wooden wheels. “Somewhere along way, find where slavers meet other, then track them, and get stuff back.”

“Doc and Jak, get those saddles,” Ryan directed. “Krysty, search for our boots, Mildred stand guard, J.B. with me.”

Leaving the others to their work, Ryan and J.B. walked over to the wooden cage in the back of the wag to scowl at the huddled people inside. Most of them had bloody noses, and one fellow was lying on the dirty straw knocked unconscious. Silently, the naked prisoners dully watched the armed men with a mixture of hope and fear.

“We're going to set you all free,” Ryan announced coldly, looking them over. “But first, does anybody know who sold us to the slavers or where it happened?”

“Big Joe did the deal,” an old man stated, grabbing the bars with both hands. “Don't know where he captured ya. Probably that damn waterfall.” His eyes got dreamy. “After all that salt to see cool, blue water…”

“Where does Big Joe make camp?” Ryan said in a controlled voice. “What ville?”

But the old man merely shrugged in reply.

Resting the stock of his weapon on a hip, Ryan snorted in annoyance. At least they now had a name. That wasn't much, just barely a start. They would just have to go back to the waterfall and try to follow the tracks of Big Joe to pay him a surprise visit in the middle of the night.

“They find a lot of folks at the waterfall?” J.B. asked, lifting the iron key from the grass.

Most of the prisoners couldn't take their eyes off the object in his hand. Only the old man looked at him directly. “I hear the masters get folks there once or twice a moon. Stop by there regular.”

Now, Ryan and J.B. exchanged glances. That raised some interesting possibilities. Find the waterfall, and eventually they would find the thieves.

“Set them loose,” Ryan growled, cocking back the hammer of the flintlock.

Getting some rope from the front of the wag, J.B. knotted the length every couple of feet, then tied it firmly to the rear axle. Climbing on top of the cage, he undid the lock and flipped the hatch aside. “Come on out,” J.B. commanded, throwing down the coil.

Grinning fiendishly, a skinny man knocked aside some of the other prisoners to grab the rope and scamper quickly to the top only to find J.B. still standing there, the pepperbox pointing directly at his face. “The old man goes first,” he said in a dangerous tone.

Glowering, the man went back down the rope, and the old man slowly climbed to the roof, then down to the ground.

“Here's a knife and a bag of water,” Ryan said, tossing the objects onto the ground. “Take anything else you want from the corpses, and help yourselves to the meat.” He indicated the horses.

Nodding in understanding, the old man stumbled to a fat body to remove the shirt, shoes and a flintlock handblaster. The weight almost brought down his oversize pants, so the man tightened the rope belt, then headed directly for the other man who was tearing into the meaty flank of a palomino horse.

“Okay, you're next,” J.B. ordered, pointing at a girl.

Sulking in the corner, the skinny man watched hatefully as the child did as commanded to join the wrinklie outside. In ragged order, the rest of the prisoners shuffled forward to take their turn, several of them obviously too weak to ever have made it without the addition of the knots.

Soon there was only the skinny man remaining, and a short woman with wild gray hair. Rocking back and forth on her heels, she crouched in the dirty hay, endlessly shaking her head.

“Come on, it's an easy climb,” J.B. said, jiggling the rope.

“No,” she muttered, looking away. “This is forbidden. We cannot leave without the permission of our masters.”

“They're aced,” Ryan said through the bars. “You're free.”

“We must wait for the masters!” she screamed insanely, and then began to weep.

“The bastards broke her,” J.B. muttered softly, tightening his grip on the pepperbox. Then he sighed, and looked at the skinny man standing in the corner. “Okay, your turn.”

Rushing forward, he climbed the rope and crawled out the top to climb down to the ground. He jumped the last few feet and landed in the grass, with a wide grin. Then he turned and sprinted away, moving with surprising speed.

“What about her?” J.B. asked, shouldering the blaster.

“Forget her, and leave the hatch open,” Ryan said gruffly. “Mebbe she'll come out when hungry enough. If not, it's as good a place to buy the farm as any.”

Turning away to rejoin the companions, Ryan and J.B. paused as a short man with greasy hair warily approached.

“Excuse me, Baron?” a young man asked, bowing his head respectfully. “May I speak?”

“The name's Ryan,” the Deathlands warrior muttered. “Say whatever you want.”

“If you want a blaster,” J.B. added, “then you better hurry and go get one. There's plenty about, but they're going fast.”

“Oh, no, sir, I have no use for a weapon.” The man smiled, displaying stained teeth. “But I was just wondering—” he lowered his voice to a whisper “—I was just wondering why you're letting everybody leave. I know a baron to the north who'll pay a lot of good brass for these animals, even in as poor a condition as they are, and—”

In a snarl, Ryan swung up his longblaster, but with the pepperbox already in his arms, J.B. fired first. The body went airborne for several yards and smacked into the wag with a juicy crunch. Sliding down the bars, the tattered corpse left behind a slimy contrail of life fluids until dropping limply into the grass.

“Anybody else think that is a good idea?” Ryan snarled, sweeping the crowd of people with his flintlock. But from their startled expressions, it was clear to the man that nobody here would ever make such a suggestion again.

In a clatter of hooves, Krysty and the other companions rode over to the men and reined their new mounts to a stop.

“Ready to go,” the redhead said, tousling the mane of her mare. “We took everything useful.” She smiled. “But never more than half.”

“Fair enough,” Ryan grunted, and climbed into the saddle on a black stallion.

“Wait! Leave us horses, too!” a man cried out, a half-eaten piece of smoked fish in his hand. He was wearing the pants of a slaver, the rope belt tied around his upper chest.

“Sorry, not enough to go around,” Ryan replied
gruffly, sliding his flintlock into a worn leather gun boot. It fit perfectly, snug and secure.

“But we're in the middle of nowhere!” a woman wailed with tears in her eyes.

“Fireblast! We aced the slavers and set you free, then shared the jack and even left you some weapons,” Ryan stated scornfully, adjusting the reins. “What else do you want us to do, wipe your ass?” In spite of his demeanor, the man felt sorry for the former slaves. They didn't have a chance in hell of reaching a ville alive. But this was a life-or-death situation, and before anything else, Ryan took care of his friends. These others would have to survive on their own.

Several of the former prisoners seemed to have something more to say on the matter, but the ready blasters of the companions kept them at bay until they rode off to a safe distance.

Starting the horses at an easy pace, Ryan led the companions around in a large circle until finding the original path of the three wags across the grasslands. Thankfully, the cages were very heavy, and the wooden wheels had pressed hard tracks into the grass and soft black loam.

Slowing in their scavenging of the contents of the wags, the half-dressed former prisoners watched the companions

“Stay alert for any glass ribbons,” J.B. warned, his piebald gelding trotting along close to Mildred's roan mare. “Without our rad counters, it'll be mighty easy for us to ride into a rad pit, and then we're all wearing grass for a hat.”

“Bad way buy farm,” Jak drawled. The albino was holding the reins of a chestnut stallion with his good hand. His wide leather belt was stuffed with an assortment of knives, every one of them needing a proper sharpening.

“There is no good way, my young friend,” Doc rumbled with a scowl, moving to the easy motions of his gelding. In spite of his bandaged chest, the old man rode a horse as if he had been born in a saddle. It hadn't always been so.

“How about…in bed, having sex, while watching your worst enemy have a heart attack and fall out the window?” Krysty asked, her animated hair flexing and moving around the woman like living flame.

“Into a rad pit, full of stickies,” a squinting J.B. added, forcing a weary grin.

“Cannies,” Jak corrected.

“With a tapeworm,” Mildred finished with a flourish.

“Nice touch, madam,” Doc said, managing a soft chuckle. “Well-done!”

Although bone-tired, Ryan almost smiled at that him self. Humor was sometimes the only thing that kept you going when times were tough. That, and raw hatred. Kicking his stallion into a full gallop, the one-eyed man started briskly along the dirt tracks toward the grassy horizon. He had no real idea where they were at the moment, or where they were going, but he knew their ultimate goal—find Big Joe, and that was more than enough for the moment.

Still inside the cage of the second wag, the old woman painfully climbed up the rope to the ceiling,
only to close the hatch. Then she went back to her dirty pile of hay to wait for the return of the slavers or death. Whichever came first.

With a low groan of tortured metal, the jet fighter began to sway on the top of the museum. Leaves sprinkled off the wings, and several bird's nests tumbled off the cowling.

Down on the ground, several of the coldhearts who liked to call themselves bonemen walked away from the front door of the predark museum and curiously glanced up, their expressions quickly changing into looks of horror.

“Nuking hell, it's…trying to take off!” a boneman gasped, touching his heart, lips and forehead in an ancient sign of protection from evil. “The skykiller is coming to life on its own!”

“Moron! It's breaking loose!” another boneman snarled, and ran inside the building to yank a cord. Instantly, a bell began to ring. “Everybody to the roof!” he bellowed into a speaking tube, the words echoing throughout the four-story building. “Bring ropes and nails! Everybody to the roof! The nuking plane is breaking free!”

Instantly, there came a snapping noise, almost sounding like distant blasterfire, and the jet fighter slid off the roof, sending out a flurry of sparks and loose debris as it scraped along the casement and plummeted straight down.

The bonemen at the front door had only enough time to scream before the multimillion-dollar aircraft slammed onto the pavement between them. The nose crumpled into a wad, and the cowling popped free, then the wings buckled, swatting both of the men into bloody pulp. Incredibly, the plane thunderously detonated, sending out a roiling fireball of flame and smoke, hot shrapnel zinging off the brickwork of the Boneyard and exploding in through the open front door like a shotgun blast. Four bonemen were torn to pieces, their bloody remains splattering against the marble stairwell of the predark museum.

“We're under attack!” a boneman screamed, firing a blaster blindly into the jungle around the building.

“Fire!” another man yelled from inside the smoky building. “The Boneyard is on fire!”

“Get water buckets!”

“Get grens!”

“Find Big Joe!”

As the tail section of jet unexpectedly exploded, the bonemen scattered like leaves in the wind, shouting and waving their arms, the rumbling detonation echoing across the crumbling metropolis like unchained thunder.

On the roof, the Pig Iron Gang peeked over the edge and grinned in delight.

“That worked well,” Thal muttered in frank approval, tucking a spare pipe bomb back in his munitions bag.

“Think that'll keep them busy for a few minutes?” Rose asked, tucking a knife back into a sheath.

“Shitfire, they'll be running around like a mutie with
its head cut off for the rest of the bastard day,” Charlie said with a smirk, adjusting his glasses.

“Look at 'em dance.” Petrov grinned, showing all of his teeth.

A large man dressed all in black strode out of the museum, a rapid-fire in each fist, his bald head gleaming as if freshly shaved.

Instantly, Petrov jerked back to not be seen. “Now, let's go get those hogs,” he whispered, crawling across the roof toward the skylight.

Using some oil from the munitions bag, Thal lubricated the hinges of the access hatch, and Petrov forced it upward, using the Steyr as a pry bar. Large red flakes of rust sprinkled off the corroded metal, and a boneman stepped into view, first staring at the rust on the marble floor, then looking up.

“Hi,” Petrov whispered, and stabbed the man in the throat with the sword hidden in the ebony walking stick.

As the man's eyes went wide in recognition, Rose pulled the trigger on the SIG-Sauer. The weapon gave a hard cough, and the head of the boneman jerked backward as a black hole appeared in the middle of his forehead. With a guttural sigh, the gurgling man eased to the floor, just as the Pig Iron Gang climbed down the ancient access ladder, neatly avoiding the rigged explosives attached to the third step.

Twitching feebly, the dying man tried to reach the blaster holstered at his hip, but Charlie kicked him in the face, then took the weapon, along with the spare ammo clips. Yes, exactly as Petrov had said, .38-caliber rounds, just what he now used. Perfect!

Risking a quick peek over the balcony, Petrov saw the people scurrying about on the ground floor, beating wet blankets on countless small fires, the air murky with thick smoke.

Tapping the man on the shoulder, Rose silently asked a question, and Petrov jerked a thumb to the right. Moving low and fast, the gang swept through the noisy building, passing numerous glass cases full of blasters, uniforms and such. It looked like a military storehouse to the gang, but Petrov had assured them not to waste any time trying to jack anything. The clothing was usable, but the weapons were dummies, the barrels blocked solid.

Back when Petrov was a kid running with the bonemen, it had been his job to scrape the barrels clean, using the parts of one blaster to fix another, slowly building an arsenal for Big Joe out of the mementos of the past. Then he had accidentally broken a mil weapon called a bazooka and been severely punished for the mistake. Petrov wouldn't talk about what happened, but the next night he escaped into the jungle and had been on his own ever since, stealing from the people he once called family.

Two more bonemen were ruthlessly dispatched before the gang reached the end of the corridor. Stopping at a glass case, Petrov used the panga to force the lock, then chose two slim books from amid the many inside.

“Fuel,” the man whispered to the others, closing the door once more.

Grimly, they nodded in understanding.

Now, going to the elevator, Petrov thrust the sword between the double door and eased it down until there
came a soft twang, as if the string on a guitar had been cut. With a grin, he sheathed the blade and pulled the unlocked doors apart. The shaft inside was dark and smelled of old dust.

Having been inside a predark elevator before, Char lie started to ask about the missing cables, when he remembered Petrov said that was what had been used to anchor the skykiller.

Flicking a butane lighter to life, Rose played the flame about until she found the steel ladder bolted to the interior wall. Without a word, she stepped onto the first rung and began to quickly climb downward. The rest of the gang followed, with Thal at the end. Carefully, he closed the doors, lashing them shut with twine, a predark gren securely knotted in place to hold down the arming lever, the safety ring already removed.

Reaching the basement, the gang checked over their weapons, then Petrov cut open the double doors and pushed them aside.

Sitting near a gun rack full of bolt-action longblasters was a boneman at a small table. An oil lantern gave off a soft glow, and the guard was noisily eating a plate of stew.

Taking a single step forward, Petrov froze as the guard quickly looked up, a hand going to the blaster on his hip. Then he beamed a greasy smile. “Pete!” the boneman said in delight.

“Goodbye, Frank,” Petrov growled, and Rose fired twice, punching out the man's eyes, the 9-mm Parabellum rounds cracking the back of his head.

As the body tumbled from the chair, Petrov searched the boneman's pockets, but came up empty. Snarling
in frustration, he moved onward, the rest of the gang only pausing for a heartbeat at the cabinet to grab some loose rounds on a shelf. Who knew if they were right for their weapons? But you just didn't pass up free ammo. The last in line again, Thal used another length of twine to rig a fast trip line across the floor at ankle level, one end attached to the gun cabinet, the other end to another gren, this one marked with a broad red stripe. He had no idea what the marking stood for, but hoped it was something good; high-explosive or poison gas maybe, not just smoke.

Several empty prison cells lined a wall. Only the two at opposite ends held a prisoner, a teenager who beamed at the gang in delight and a naked woman who stared at them in open hatred. Moving quickly, she tried to crawl underneath the bed that filled most of her cell. Petrov paid no attention to the slut. However, Rose paused to aim the SIG-Sauer and mercifully end the woman's years of imprisonment.

“Waste of brass.” Charlie snorted, watching the body drop.

“Let's hear you say that after you've been ridden by fifteen men in an hour,” Rose growled hatefully, her pretty face distorting briefly in an inhuman mask of hatred.

Wordlessly, Thal touched her on the shoulder, and Rose jerked away, only to relent and gently elbow the giant. Big enough to take whatever he wanted, Thal would never join her in bed unless asked first. In her dark world, that was as close to love as Rose would allow herself to imagine.

“That was mighty hard mercy,” the teenager whis
pered. “But I guess there was no other way. Quick, now, get the keys for my door! You'll find them near the gun cabinet!”

“We're not here for you, little baron,” Petrov drawled, walking past the cell.

“B-but I know you!” he stated with growing conviction. “The something gang…the Iron Boys…from that tavern, Haven…no, Heaven! You live in my ville!”

“Not anymore,” Thal rumbled, walking away.

Reaching a steel gate, Petrov paused at the sight of a long corridor on the other side. There was a plain wooden door at the far end, and beyond that…freedom.

“Nuke it,” Petrov commanded, sheathing the sword.

While Thal got busy with a pipe bomb and fuse, the rest of the gang moved away from the gate to go into an empty cell. Puzzled for only a moment, the teenager flipped over his bed, quickly taking refuge behind the hard mattress.

“Razor up, boys,” Petrov said, swinging up the S&W M-4000 and working the pump. “Because, once this blows…”

There came a loud hissing, and Thal charged away from the gate to dive into the cell. A split second later, the world seemed to explode, the entire four-story building rocking as dust rained down from the ceiling and loose bricks tumbled out of the walls.

The roiling smoke of the blast still filled the air as the Pig Iron Gang stumbled out of the cell. Coughing from the acrid fumes, they shuffled to the ruined gate and kicked aside the mass of twisted metal to head for
the wooden door. Dimly from the floors above, they could hear raised voices and a bell clanging.

“Here they come.” Charlie laughed softly, hefting both of his blasters.

“Frag 'em!” Petrov shouted, using the scattergun to remove the lock. The wood and metal vanished under the assault of the 12-gauge cartridge, and the door slammed aside. Clutching a bloody arm, a boneman was crouching on the floor, his face covered with splinters as if he was some sort of a mutie porcupine.

“Hello, Kelly,” Petrov whispered, pressing the barrel of the weapon against the man's stomach.

“Wh-who the f-frag are you?” Kelly asked, confused.

Enraged at the lack of recognition, Petrov shifted the aim of the weapon and shot the man between the legs. Shrieking in pain, Kelly hit the floor, clutching the ghastly wound that had once been his manhood.

Walking past the weeping man, Petrov turned and fired again into his buttocks. Thrown forward, blood erupted from the boneman's mouth, and he landed sprawling in the corridor, crimson gushing from both ends.

Thumbing in fresh cartridges, Petrov saw Rose look at him in sudden understanding. She started to speak, then shook her head and walked on, brushing aside a heavy tarpaulin that hung from the ceiling like a curtain. A garage came into view, the walls lined with spare parts and tools and various machines. A concrete ramp led upward to a set of wooden doors, and light came from several small alcohol lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

Quickly, the gang spread out, hunting for their tar
gets. The garage was filled with wags, most of them in various stages of disassemble or repair, but off to the side were five motorcycles, the windshields slightly milky but intact, the tires black and firm.

“Jackpot!” Charlie grinned. Any one of these hogs would fetch the entire gang a year of room and board from any baron west of the Darks.

“Nothing with a sidecar!” Petrov directed sternly. “We've got some deep water to ford. Two-wheelers only!”

Just then, something detonated in the distance, closely followed by the screams of wounded men dying.

“Thal, open the exit!” Petrov bellowed, the time for secrecy long over. “Rose, stand guard! Charlie, start filling gas tanks!”

As the gang rushed to their tasks, Petrov went to a wall locker and used the stock of the scattergun to smash off the padlock. Inside was a collection of keys for the vehicles. Ignoring the fakes, Petrov pushed on a corner of the board, and it swung around to reveal the real keys. Big Joe was smart, and a master of the rigging traps, but he talked too much when drunk, and Petrov remembered everything he had ever heard.

“Payback's a bitch.” Petrov chortled, taking the keys for the bikes and walking over to shove them into the ignitions.

A second detonation came from the other end of the corridor, and Rose sent a long spray from the Uzi into the expanding cloud of smoke. A man cried out, but more in surprise than anything else.

“How many of them are there, boy?” Big Joe demanded from inside the cloud. “Are they barbs? Muties?”

“Nuke you!” a youthful voice replied defiantly. “There's a thousand of them! All ten feet tall and armed with rapid-fires!”

Quickly, the gang took cover behind the wags.

“Tough kid,” Charlie whispered in grudging admiration.

“Now I'm sorry we didn't set him loose,” Rose snarled in agreement.

“Frag him,” Petrov whispered, then loudly shouted, “Hey, Joe! Why don't you come on down and count us for yourself!” Then he unleashed three rounds from the scattergun, the spray ricocheting off the cinder-block walls of the corridor to no effect whatsoever, but sounding like predark artillery.

A hail of blasterfire replied from the other end of the passageway, the assortment of lead punching different-size holes into the sheet-metal bodies of the predark cars or ripping off chunks of the fiberglass fenders. Undamaged, Petrov and Rose answered back with hot lead as the other members of the gang feverishly tried to get their tasks done in time. A split second either way, and they'd be on the last train west.