Axler, James - Deathlands 50 - Pandora's Redoubt

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Pandora's Redoubt
Dean scanned the area. "Where's Krysty?"
Startled, Ryan jerked his head around. One glance told him she wasn't in the tank with them.
Rushing to a blasterport, the one-eyed man blew away the outside greenery with a single discharge
and looked frantically at the alleyway. Ivy was everywhere, thickening by the second.
"Second floor!" Doc cried, standing at the rooftop periscope.
Ryan turned and found her, dangling from the grip of the mutie plant twenty feet in the air. Her
.38 discharged once, pointing at nothing in particular. Then she was hauled over the rooftop and
gone.
"Combat positions," Ryan ordered, striding past his friends and sliding into the driver's seat.
"We're going after her."
To Melissa and Lisa, for doing such a bang-up job. Thanks, amigas.
First edition June 2000
ISBN 0-373-62560-X
Copyright 2000 by Worldwide Library
It is the nature of a thing to be true to its essence: fire can only burn, a rock is unyielding,
water flows. Men alone are both animal and intellect and thus must choose if they shall stand
erect and embrace the stars, or sprawl in the dirt and feats on blood like a lowly beast.
-- The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, 167 A.D.
THE SAGA
This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the
bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.
There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance,
vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.
But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure-in the way of the lion, the hawk
and the tiger, true to nature's heart despite its ruination.
Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a
tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.
Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville's own Titian-haired beauty; a woman with the strength of
tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.
J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan's close ally, he, too, honed his skills
traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.
Doctor Theophllus Tkinner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been
thrown into a future he couldn't have imagined.
Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much
lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills
to a nightmare.
Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the
albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.
Dean Cawdor: Ryan's young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is
the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.
In a world where all was lost, they are humanity's last hope....
Chapter One
The handle of the door to the mat-trans chamber moved a fraction of an inch, the hinges
screeching in protest at the intrusion. Muffled curses came from the other side as the stubborn
handle grudgingly moved, and promptly jammed again. More curses. Then the locking mechanism
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disengaged with a echoing clank of heavy steel on steel The door was muscled open, and seven armed
people charged into the hexagonal chamber beyond. A badly scarred man with a patch covering one
eye was the last inside, and he stood ready to close the door behind them to trigger a jump.
"Dark night, we made it," J. B. Dix gasped. The short wiry man removed his well-worn
fedora to rub a grimy sleeve across his sweaty forehead. "I knew we could outrun it."
"Gaia," Krysty Wroth breathed, her sentient crimson hair tightening protectively about her
lovely face, "we're lucky it found the elevator shaft to fall down."
"Gren helped," Jak Lauren said. The slim, snowy-haired albino teen walked across the
chamber and sat on one of the disks set into the floor.
"Grens always help," J.B. commented.
Keeping a close watch on the door behind them, Dean Cawdor scowled and said nothing, but
shifted the grip on his Browning Hi-Power pistol as if in preparation for an attack.
"Do you think it can get through the door?" Dr. Mildred Wyeth asked anxiously, shifting
her backpack of medical supplies on her shoulders.
"The thermal inversion gradient of the armaglass portal is not precisely known," Doc
Tanner replied, taking his usual spot on the floor. "But as this establishment was theoretically
designed to be nukeproof, therefore, I would extrapolate that the defensive yield potential is-"
"Door!" Jak barked, pointing past Ryan.
Spinning, Ryan saw that the access door to the control room was slowly bulging inward,
distending like the bloated belly of a starving man, horribly straining at the resilient alloy
framework. The reek of sulfur hit them as yellow steam spurted around the edges and the walls on
either side began to glow warmly. Then a wave of dry heat washed over the group, stinging their
eyes and searing exposed flesh.
"By the Three Kennedys!" Doc intoned, pulling out his huge LeMat pistol for no sane
reason. "The lava is here!"
"Everybody sit down!" Ryan ordered, starting to close the door to the mat-trans unit. But
he was unable to remove his gaze from the terrible scene outside. Although stretching like warm
taffy, the trembling door to the control room was still in place. The walls on either side,
however, were turning orange from the volcanic heat.
"Soon yellow, then white," Krysty warned, sweat dripping off her chin. "Then it'll soften
and melt away."
Loosening the collar of his jacket, J.B. agreed. "We'll be long gone by then. Got a minute
yet, mebbe two."
As he spoke, the glowing walls beyond the chamber shattered in a crackling explosion, the
remaining chunks peeling away like a flower blossoming to the sun, and white-hot lava began to
thickly pump into the control room.
Beyond the yellowish haze they could see only an endless plain of reddish flames.
Once Ryan saw that all of the companions were properly seated on the floor, he slammed the
door shut, triggering the jump mechanism, and quickly went to sit beside Krysty. Immediately, the
usual mist filled the chamber, engulfing the seven friends, sparks forming around them like
newborn stars.
Drawing his 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol, Ryan could just barely see the deadly lava flow
inexorably rising higher and higher, moving toward them, the locked door standing ludicrously
upright in the lambent field of molten stone. If the mat-trans unit failed to work because of
damage from the lava, then he'd use the pistol. First on Krysty, then on the others and himself.
It'd be a lot quicker than burning alive. He glanced at her and saw she already had her own .38-
caliber Smith & Wesson revolver out and was looking at him. They shared a moment of understanding
more intimate than any embrace.
Then a great surge of power filled their bodies from within as a subsonic hum tore them
apart. The universe yawned wide as all eternity. Instantly, they embarked on a subelectronic
journey toward an unknown destination, possibly into the great abyss itself
Well over one century old, the predark matter-trans chambers sent travelers randomly to
other units, the secret of their precise control lost forever.
As always, during the time the friends were unconscious, hallucinations filled their
minds, idyllic dreams and mad visions, phantasms of old enemies, bloody battles and sexual
fantasies. But on this journey the visions died before being truly formed. Suddenly, solid,
flooring was beneath Ryan's back, and he was reeling a bit from the usual aftershocks of being
instantly transferred to a new destination.
As the mist began to thin, Ryan lay still, a pounding headache momentarily clouding his
vision. The masking clouds of mist were unusually thick this time. Or was it the sulfur fumes? The
awful heat of the lava seemed still to be with them, and he tried to force breath into his heaving
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chest Hot, he was so hot, and needed to draw a lungful of air. But he seemed unable to pull
atmosphere inside his aching body. Was this another of the hallucinations? He had never dreamed of
arriving before. Had they gone anywhere? Or where they still reduced to electronic signals pulsing
along the hidden network of the worldwide web of mat-trans units yet to arrive? Perhaps never to
arrive. Fireblast, there were times that he hated these bastard machines.
Slowly, the mists dissipated, but his vision was still oddly obscured. Squinting his good
eye, Ryan saw the others working their mouths as if trying to draw air into their lungs.
Krysty was on her hands and knees. "Can't... breathe," she gasped, her prehensile hair
hanging limply, as if the living strands of crimson were unconscious. Her chest rose and fell
unnaturally as she tried to father air.
Jak had managed to get to his feet and leaned weakly against one of the armaglass walls. He began
to drip sweat, black stains spreading over his camou-colored vest. J.B. was on his stomach, his
beloved fedora bunched in a white-knuckled hand. Gasping, Mildred was tearing at the crew neck of
her T-shirt, desperate to get restrictive clothing away from her throat His ebony swordstick lying
at his feet, Doc grimaced as if in the grip of an invisible fist squeezing the very life out of
him. Clutching the Browning to his chest, Dean stood stock-stiIl, as if dead and ready to topple
over.
Clearly, there was no more time to wait. Ryan had to know if they were safe or should
chance another jump immediately. Summoning strength, the one-eyed man forced himself to step out
of the jump unit, half expecting his feet to vanish into fiery ash But his worn combat boots
thumped onto a solid floor. There was no lava. The black-walled chamber was empty except for them.
Thankfully, they had jumped to a different redoubt. Yet the heat was still here, cooking them to
death.
Ryan hawked to clear his dry throat. "Something's wrong," he managed to croak.
"Jump now," Mildred gasped. "Heat's going to kill us."
Ryan shook his head. "Can't until we know for sure that the other redoubt is gone. If we
jump back before the volcano melts the chamber completely, we fry."
"I say thee, nay, Agamemnon," Doc gasped. "Trepidation is unnecessary. We are quite safe."
"Bullshit," Dean coughed.
"A useful enough organic by-product of domesticated bovines, but not a correct summation
in this particular instance, young Dean," Doc said, pausing between the words. "This roasting is
merely..." He swallowed. "From the residual...heat that jumped with us. See?" He pointed a bony
finger downward. There lay several large lumps of glowing orange rock among them, radiating
a fierce heat like miniature blast furnaces.
"The old coot is right," Mildred gasped. "The lava came along with us."
"Some. It seems as if our timing has exceeded our quotient of luck by the nth factor."
"Come on out," Ryan ordered, "I can feel the redoubt's life support starting to pump in
cool air." Then his stomach rebelled and he doubled over to retch loudly in the corner. Jump
sickness almost always affected some of the companions, but usually Doc and Jak.
The friends staggered to their feet or pushed from the walls, moving as far from the lava
as possible. Everybody was pale and holding throbbing heads. Jak sported a bad nosebleed and
several of them used the corners of the chamber to vomit Wordlessly, Mildred extracted a battered
canteen from her backpack. Unscrewing the chained cap took two tries, but it finally came free.
The physician made a bitter face, then forced her to take a long swallow.
"Here," she said, handing it to the nearest person. "This should help."
Uncaring if it was poison or whiskey, everybody took a swallow and passed it on to the
next.
"I hope it's better than the last batch," Krysty muttered, tilting her head and
luxuriating in the cool breeze from the ceiling vents.
Smoothing his rumpled fedora, J.B. glumly signaled agreement. "Gave us the runs for a week."
"That which does not kill us, makes us stronger," Doc said. "Or at least, that's the
theory. Occasionally I have found Nietzsche to be a total ass."
However, minds soon cleared and the knotted stomachs eased some. Not much, but some.
"Best mix so far," Ryan stated, handing the empty canteen to Mildred.
The black woman screwed the cap on tight. "Would have been better if I could have found some mint
leaves."
Sitting upright, Jak arched an snowy eyebrow. "Not?" he asked.
The physician shook her head. "Orange peels and scrag root. Close enough in taste, but not
effect."
"Hope the mat-trans is still okay," Ryan said, studying the floor with its collection of
fiercely glowing rocks.
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Hawking loudly, Jak spit out an orange lump and watched the spittle sizzle into steam.
"Close," he drawled.
"Too damn close," Krysty added.
"But we got the rations. No hunting mutie deer or trading bullets for chickens for a
while," Mildred said. "The risk was worth it. We have enough clean food for a couple weeks."
"Tis a pity, though," Doc boomed, leaning heavily on his swordstick as he got standing.
"That storeroom was a cornucopia of food, sufficient vittles for years. Decades!"
"Took all we could," Ryan said gruffly, checking the action on his SIG-Sauer blaster. The
pistol was a prized possession, a military police blaster of the finest quality, and its built-in
acoustic baffler made the silenced gun no louder than a cough when it fired.
"It's enough," said Dean, touching his vest to ascertain he hadn't lost anything in
transit. Having been caught once with no ammo, and damn near getting aced because of it, Dean was
grimly determined it would never happen again. Front and back, the entire expanse of a newly
acquired leather vest was sewn into tiny pockets to hold individual rounds for his blaster. He was
a walking munitions dump, and the weight was awful. However, he doubted if even an arrow could
penetrate the thick garment. His father told him he was carrying too much, that speed was as
necessary as bullets to stay alive in Deathlands, and he was right. But the lad wasn't yet ready
to admit he had overfigured his own strength.
Feeling better by the minute, Ryan walked about the chamber. "Hmm, black walls with silver
streaking. We've never been to this redoubt before."
"Beautiful," Mildred said, running fingertips across the smooth almost frictionless surface.
"Could this be D.C.? Some ancient executive redoubt?"
"Mayhap some crazed billionaire's private penthouse," Doc grumbled. "Notice how the excess
heat is almost totally dissipated? The life support system is exemplary."
"Not good enough for me," Krysty said, pinching her nose shut. "Hot lava and sulfur mixed
with fresh vomit. This place stinks."
"Agreed," Ryan stated, cracking a rare smile. "Let's move out."
He moved to the door, then started to press the handle. Everybody readied weapons as the heavy
portal smoothly swung open on silent hinges. However, instead of the usual anteroom on the other
side, there was only a seamless expanse of wood, dark and solid as a mountain.
"Blocked off," Ryan said in amazement
Dean worked the slide of his Browning, chambering a round for immediate use.
"What in hell for?" Mildred asked. "To hide the mat-trans?"
"Seems likely."
Expertly, J.B. ran his callused hands over the wood. "Hmm, not joined beams, but a single
piece."
"Big tree," Jak said.
"Paneling," J.B. stated, tapping the material lightly with a knuckle. "Hear that? Thin
stuff. No more than a half inch thick. Pretty light armor."
"To keep others out, not us in," Ryan said, holstering his pistol and sliding the Steyr
SSG-70 rifle off his shoulder. "Everybody get ready. Triple red."
Moving to the rear of the pack, Mildred eased back the hammer on her Czech-made ZKR .38-
caliber target pistol. Loosening one of the many throwing knives in his belt, Jak did the same
with his .357 Colt Python revolver.
J.B. placed an ear to the wood and held his breath. Nobody spoke.
Approaching the man, Ryan placed his mouth near his old friend's ear. "People? Sec droid?"
he asked softly, easing the off safety of the Steyr. He was down to only a few rounds, but the
heavy-caliber bullets would do far more damage to both man or machine than his pistol.
"Clear," J.B. announced, stepping away. "There're no traps I can find, and nothing is
moving on the other side."
Mildred grunted. "Then open it."
"Check." Expertly running his hands over the wood, the Armorer knocked experimentally,
then scratched here and there.
"Blast hole?" Jak asked, rummaging in his fatigues and withdrawing a half stick of
dynamite.
Resting the rifle on his shoulder, Ryan snorted in contempt "We can kick our way through."
"Not necessary," J.B. replied, probing the edges of the alloy doorframe. "Ah. here we are.
Found the catch." The wood slid aside, exposing darkness.
Instantly, everybody moved away from the open doorway, weapons at the ready. For several minutes
they stood motionless, patiently waiting, listening hard. When nothing happened, Ryan took the
point, moving in low and fast, the pitted barrel of his Steyr sweeping the room, searching for
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targets. He was flanked by Jak and Krysty, with J.B. and Doc staying as backup at the open door,
ready to block it with their bodies if need be. Dean stood off to the side with Mildred, ready to
cover the two men should it be necessary.
It took a moment for Ryan's eye to adjust to the dim light. That wasn't good. Usually, the
overhead lights came on automatically. Then he saw the ceiling fixtures were completely smashed,
every single bulb systematically destroyed.
"But not the tiles alongside," Krysty noted.
"Somebody wanted it dark," Ryan agreed, keeping his blind side toward his companions.
There was a sigh of steel on leather as Jak eased a knife from its sheath. "Ambush?"
"Most likely."
Carefully, the three moved through the mixture of litter that covered the floor of the
anteroom. Next, instead of the usual control room, they discovered an office. The furniture was
broken, the pieces scattered randomly with broken plastic and glass underfoot everywhere. Bullet
holes stitched a wall at chest height. Ryan checked, and sure enough the opposite wall was the
same. A firefight had occurred. Over in a corner was the remains of an executive bar. mirror and
bottles reduced to glistening shards from a small explosion.
"Plastique," Ryan stated. "Homemade, weak stuff."
"No shrap," Jak added, kicking away some unidentifiable wreckage. "Diversion."
The hairs on the back of Ryan's neck were starting to rise, and he loosened the 9 mm
pistol in its belt holster. "Yeah, but a diversion for who? There's nobody here."
"And no bodies."
"Found them," Krysty called out, holstering her pistol and looking at something on the
back side of an overturned couch. Jak and Ryan quickly joined her.
There on the dirty floor, locked in each other's arms were two corpses. Human, male, and
both long dead. The skin was drum tight over their bones, teeth exposed in the rictus of death.
Their hands were locked around each other's throat, fingers buried in the mottled flesh. A pair of
knives lay nearby, as did a rusty U.S. Army Colt .45, the slide kicked back showing it was out of
ammo. At the base of the wall was a badly rusted Browning Automatic Rifle, its bolt action open
and showing it too was out of bullets. The men were dressed in the usual scavenged rags of a dozen
different styles, only their boots and the holsters in decent shape. Two bandoliers of empty
cartridge loops crisscrossed the chest of the blond man on top' while the bald man on the bottom
wore a vest made entirely of rectangular pockets to hold ammo clips for an autofire blaster.
Satisfied, Ryan whistled sharply through his teeth, once long, then short, and the others
cautiously walked into the ancient battle room.
"Died killing each other," Mildred said, studying the desiccated corpses. "Been dead four,
maybe five weeks. Air system has kept down the smell."
"But not removed it entirely," Doc admonished, sniffing delicately. "I must say, this
locale is getting decidedly most pungent."
Loudly blowing his nose into a handkerchief, Jak inspected the bloody residue and barked a
laugh. "Don't breathe."
Stoically, Ryan looked around the room. "Nothing much here to fight over. Bar's empty, no
weapon cabinet in sight, and they clearly knew nothing about the mat-trans behind the wall. Must
have been personal."
"None of their equipment is from standard military stores," J.B. added, lifting the BAR
and working the bolt a few times. "So they didn't get it out of storage here. This is old and been
patched many times. Seen a lot of work, too. Probably mercies, or coldhearts."
"My question is how did they get inside the redoubt?" Mildred asked, wiping off her hands
on her pant leg. "Could the door be down?"
"Must be. No other way in."
Resting the butt of his rifle on his hip, Ryan chewed that over. "So they somehow blasted
through the nuke-proof door? Not likely. Somehow, the bastards figured a way to open the door." He
paused. "Or worse, they were let in."
"Sleepers?" Dean asked.
"Always a possibility."
Nudging the blond corpse with the silvered toe of her cowboy boot, Krysty frowned, her
long crimson hair tightly circling and uncurling about her lovely face. "This is getting worse by
the minute. Secret panels, suicide norms, now sleepers? I vote we go."
"Check," Jak said, pocketing a knife from the floor.
"No," Ryan stated, grimacing. "After that trouble we had with Kaa, anything odd with the
redoubts warrants a recce."
"I agree," J.B. said, shoving back his fedora and scratching underneath. "I don't care for
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it, either, but we gotta know. These things are our lifeline."
Jak scowled but didn't voice a differing opinion, and after a bit, Krysty shrugged her acceptance.
Mildred remained neutral.
"Lay on, Macduff," Doc said, extending a hand toward the door.
Gingerly, J.B. went to work using flexible tools that slid under the jamb. A loud click made
everybody jump, except the Armorer. He beamed a smile and the door swung into the room. Attached
to the handle was a simple affair of a old-fashioned pineapple grenade and string.
"Kid's stuff," J.B. said with a grin, snipping the string and pocketing the grenade. The
checkered ball and slim activation lever, or "spoon" as it was called in the predark days, was a
predark model from one of the world wars, but still deadly.
The corridor in front of the office was dark, and a quick check showed the overheads were
also smashed. In the dim light from the mat-trans unit, they could see the standard redoubt map on
the wall. This was level five, office and communications. Below them was storage, power and life
support. Above them was the barracks, kitchen and hospital, and the top level-unmarked with a
designation.
"Stranger and stranger," Ryan said, the muzzle of the Steyr SSG-70 sweeping back and forth
in perfect rhythm to his own single eye. "We'll head for the elevator. One on one coverage, single
yard spread. Soft penetration."
"Top floor?" Jak asked, his head tilted forward. "Check. If there's anybody here, they'll
have supplies or people near the exit."
"Make sense."
"Check"
Keeping near the wall, they felt the air move constantly over them in artificial breezes
from the ceiling vents. There was no dust or musky smell of mildew.
"This base must have been absolutely airtight until the recent intrusion," Mildred
whispered. "Any supplies in the storerooms should be in perfect shape."
"Could be what those two were fighting over," Krysty noted, straining her spirit to sense
any danger.
"Triple stupe," Jak snorted, crouched to offer as poor a target as possible. "Share goods
and live."
"Wisdom indeed, my young friend," Doc whispered, patting the teenager on the shoulder.
"Share and live. The Oracle at Delphi could not have said it better."
The albino teen ignored the compliment and concentrated on the job at hand.
The end of the hallway was completely dark, and there was no way to see if the elevator
was there, or the location of the door to the stairwell. Ryan realized there was no gentle breeze
from above.
"The ceiling!" he roared, firing the Steyr upward, working the bolt action. The flashes
from the muzzle showed a human figure holding a machine gun as he dropped out of the darkness.
Fast and neat, the group split apart, their pistols and rifles barking a staccato reply.
The figure jerked at each deadly impact, but he didn't fall or drop his weapon. Oddly, neither did
he return fire. Then the impossible happened. Without dropping his rifle, the stranger opened both
of his hands as if majestically offering a holy benediction and two heavy black balls landed on
the carpeting with soft thuds, breaking apart and releasing their slim handles.
Chapter Two
"Grenades!" J.B. yelled, dropping his Uzi and diving toward the black spheres. Landing
hard on his stomach, the Armorer punched out hard with both hands. He scored a double hit, and the
charges bounded down the hallway, disappearing into the darkness.
"Three!" he yelled, covering his head with both arms.
"Open your mouths!" Mildred added, dropping fast.
"Two!" LB. roared, "One!" Ryan said, closing his eye.
Double explosions blossomed at the end of the hallway, filling the corridor with flame and
thunder. Briefly the fireball silhouetted the hanging man, then violent concussions slammed into
the group. A searing wave of heat washed over them, closely followed by a rain of broken ceiling
tiles and smoking debris. It made Ryan think of an ant in the barrel of a cannon. Somebody cried
out in pain, and a rifle discharged.
In rumbling fury, the blast expanded over them and moved down the corridor, smashing
lights and slamming aside doors. Glass shattered somewhere, and an alarm began to sound. Partially
deafened and battered, Ryan took heart at that. It meant power was still on somewhere in the
redoubt, and each passing second brought them closer to safety. He knew a person died in the first
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few seconds of an explosion or else survived.
Slowly the strident force died away in ragged stages, leaving in its wake a ringing
silence with streamers of acidic smoke moving in the air toward the ducts like ghostly fingers.
"Sweet Jesus!" Mildred coughed. "I.. .I've had fun before and this isn't it!"
Rolling onto his back, J.B. sat upright and worked his jaw a few times to try to pop his
ears clear. "Yeah. Close one."
Leaning against the wall, Krysty hawked and spit to clear her throat. "Too damn close!"
"Everybody okay?" Ryan asked, using the rifle to lever himself uptight. Fireblast and
hell, he'd felt better after torture.
A ragged chorus answered in the affirmative, then a sudden movement in the smoky darkness
caused a wild fusillade of blaster fire.
"Cease firing!" Ryan snapped, shouldering his long blaster. "It's just the meat. He isn't
alive."
"Not anymore, you mean," Dean corrected, removing the spent clip from his Browning and
slamming in a fresh one. He stuffed the exhausted clip into a pocket where it rattled against
others.
"No, he never was alive," Mildred said, patting her hands over her body in a quick check
for wounds. There were a couple of holes in her shirt, but nothing worse. "Not for us, anyhow."
Whitish smoke drifting past his pale face, Jak was almost invisible in the dim corridor.
"Possum?" He frowned.
"See for yourself," J.B. said, gesturing. Then he froze and touched his bare head. "Damn!"
He turned and started down the corridor, scanning the floor.
Blaster in hand, Jak advanced carefully and pulled a match from a pocket. Striking it on his belt,
he studied what remained of the hanging man in the tiny flickering light.
"Dead," he pronounced solemnly. "For while." Sharp spikes of rusty metal jutted from a
wooden board that pierced the man's body in a dozen places.
Ryan stepped beside the albino teenager. "Nailed in place." He craned his neck to see into the
smashed ceiling. The other end of the board was screwed to a truck-door hinge attached to the
concrete roof. The match sputtered and died, so Jak struck another and lit a candle stub. Doc and
Krysty did the same. In the soft glow of the triple flames, the scene lost its ghostly feel and
became merely another killzone, as familiar as their own faces.
Nudging a lump of twisted steel and plastic on the floor, Dean bent and lifted the dropped
weapon. "M-16 A-i carbine," he said.
"Good?" Doc asked.
"No." He tossed the broken weapon aside.
"Yeah, the gren did a good job on him," Ryan agreed. "Like it was supposed to do on us."
"Simple enough trap," said the returning Armorer, clutching his fedora. "When we
approached, the chill swung down, and everybody would naturally shoot at him. Then when you put
enough holes in the ropes, he drops the grens and goodbye." Smoothing out the crumpled brim, he
smiled grimly. "Exactly the sort of thing I'd do."
Blaster in hand, Dean moved to inspect the corpse. Chunks of the man were missing, his
clothes only rags, and the ropes holding him in place were burning in spots, allowing an arm to
hang freely. What little remained of his clothes appeared to be a tan leather jacket, blue jeans
and sandals made from car tires. Only one sandal was still on a foot, the other, and the foot
inside it, were missing.
Pushing aside the homemade tan jacket, Doc uncovered a picture on the exposed chest of a
curved knife backed by the rising sun. "What is that?"
Jak squinted against the candlelight. "Knife and sun?"
"Looks like," J.B. said, adjusting his hat to a proper cant.
"It's not paint," Ryan stated, trying to rub it off with a thumb. "Can't be a birthmark."
"This is a tattoo," Mildred said knowledgeably. She brushed fingertips over the cold torn
flesh. "A lost art these days. See the ulcerations and pitting? It was done with a sharp pencil
and machine oil. Very crude and must have hurt worse than double hell."
"Some sort of initiation?" Krysty asked.
"Mayhap. And more importantly, very difficult for an outsider to forge," Doc noted. "Good
way to identify your own people."
"Not exactly a photo ID," Mildred added, inspecting the lividity of the flesh, "but
efficient."
"Exactly."
"ID means more than two," J.B. stated, glancing about.
"Yes, there could be a lot," Krysty agreed. Holding her S&W in a steady grip, she dumped
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the spent cartridges, trained hands pocketing the spent brass and sliding in fresh rounds.
"Wonder if the others had similar marks," Ryan mused, scratching his chin. "If not, they
were probably invaders fighting for turf. If so, it was a mutiny."
Doc sighed. "Internecine, the most uncivil of wars." Gently he prodded the corpse with his
swordstick, a few more pieces coming off from the movement. "However, it would be rather
valuable data to know if we are facing two gangs, or just one."
"I can check," Mildred offered, puffing a flashlight from her med kit. There was a click
and a brilliant cone of white light leaped from the device in her hands, illuminating the corridor
with unforgiving clarity.
"Go," Ryan commanded.
Mildred nodded. "Be right back." As she hurried away, the circle of light on the hallway
walls bobbed until it angled to the right and disappeared. With the departure of the flash, the
darkness seemed even more pronounced than before.
"How'd she get batteries?" Dean asked.
"Doesn't need any," Krysty replied. "When you were at school, Mildred saved the life of
the captain of a steamboat. He gave her the flash as payment. It doesn't use batteries. Recharges
in sunlight."
"Wow."
"Here," Jak said, passing the boy his own candle. "Hold high."
Dean did as requested, and the albino teen carefully rummaged through the pockets of the dead man.
There was some twine knotted into a garrote, a big gold coin embossed with an American eagle on
one side and a Nazi swastika on the back, a few 5.7 mm cartridges, a Swiss army knife and a
plastic butane lighter, the clear plastic reservoir half full of fuel. He pocketed the lighter and
offered the rest to the others. Even though they were the wrong caliber for his Browning, Dean
took the cartridges and stuffed them into his already bulging vest. He could extract the powder
and primer later for his own bullets. Doc accepted the knife. Nobody took the gold.
"Amazing little thing," Doc said, opening and closing the many small blades. "My daughter
would have loved this. She so liked gadgets and such." He glanced about, his voice taking on a
gentler, slightly confused tone. "My, I wonder where she, Jolyon and her mother are? It has been
hours since I saw them last."
Ryan looked at Krysty, and she moved closer to the old man. "They'll be along soon," the
redhead said soothingly. "You wait here."
"Yes, of course," he said amiably, pocketing the knife. "I would not want to miss them. We
are going for a picnic down by the river."
Just then, a faint light appeared down the corridor.
"Heads up," Ryan said, snapping his rifle into a combat position. The rest assumed a half circle,
blasters ready. As if awakening from a long dream,
Doc put his back to the wall and drew the LeMat, the fog of memories clearing from his face.
"Same marks," Mildred announced, switching off her flash when she reached them. "Knife and
sun."
His face masked by the moving candle shadows, Ryan frowned deeply. "So it seems that a
gang somehow gained entrance into the redoubt and fought each other to the death." He glanced
about. "But why? Over what?"
"Armory," Jak said as if that settled the matter. J.B. agreed. Blasters were life in the
Deathlands. "I don't think so," Ryan disagreed. "These boys have old weapons, nothing new from
military storage."
"Reasonable," Doc said, biting a lip. "I would not be surprised to find out there's
nothing here of value."
"Yet they fought to the death over something," Dean pointed out.
"Mebbe it was for the redoubt itself," Krysty suggested. "It's a natural fort that no
present-day marauders could ever breach by force."
"Which raises the question, how did they get in?" Mildred asked pointedly. "The front door
is nuke-proof and locked with a code."
"Let's go find out," said Ryan, clearing the action of his SSG-70. The long blaster made
smooth noises of polished steel moving easily over oiled grooves. "Shoot anything that moves, but
try and wound if you can."
"Right. We want these assholes alive for questioning."
As the seven moved to the end of the corridor, the candles revealed the elevator was
totally destroyed, its metal frame twisted in wild shapes. The ceiling was bare struts and wiring,
the tiles gone, and the terrazzo floor was cracked like hot glass dropped into cold water.
The doors to the stairwell were torn apart, but the metal steps on the other side were
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still intact. Ryan pointed at J.B., Doc and Jak to go down. Then he tapped his bare wrist, flashed
five fingers three times and pointed upward. Next he pointed at Krysty, himself, Dean and Mildred.
They nodded and the group split apart, three heading downward, four going up as quietly as
possible.
Moving along the stairs, Ryan and his people kept to the side of the steps where the metal
would be the strongest and least likely to make noise. Old wood might occasionally creak by
itself, just adjusting to temperature and moisture. But old metal was silent, until you stepped
where age and rust had weakened it; then steel would squeal louder than pigs getting butchered by
an amateur.
Pausing at the first landing, they listened intently, but no sounds disturbed the
graveyard peace of the redoubt. Satisfied, they moved on. The doorway to the next level stood
gaping open, faint light spilling from the hallway beyond. In a two-on-two rotation formation,
they proceeded in, Krysty stepping to one side past the door to allow Ryan to pass her. As he went
to the wall, Dean came in fast and crouched low on the floor. Mildred centered last and replaced
Krysty at the door, covering their rear, as the redheaded glided past Dean. Staying alert,
watching one another's backs, they covered the entire floor, prepared for another trap or ambush.
This level of the redoubt proved to be the barracks, every door bearing an empty slot for a
nameplate. Each small room was equipped with a single bed, closet, desk, sink, shower and rotting
corpse. Some were lying in the middle of the floor with bullet wounds in their foreheads, some
with arrows through their chests. A body was found in the closet gut-stabbed. Another was sprawled
in the hallway, his body almost cut in two by a shotgun blast. But most of the slain were lying
peacefully in bed, their throats slashed, the blankets stiff with dried brown blood.
"Nightcreeps," J.B. growled. "Shoes on the floor, blasters under their pillows. These boys
were caught by surprise."
"Mostly," Krysty corrected him. "Remember that guy in the hallway."
"Same tattoos," Dean announced, letting a blanket drop back into place. "These were part
of the same group."
"Heads up," Ryan said, easing open a closet with the tip of his rifle. Instantly, there
was a twang and out shot an arrow. It streaked across the room to slam into the dead man in the
bunk. The corpse jerked at the impact, and the Navy SEAL knife in his withered hand dropped to the
floor.
"And it seems as if a few knew something was happening," Dean said, "but most didn't."
"The leaders?" Mildred suggested, eyeing the knife without interest. She already had a
Green Beret blade.
Grunting assent, Ryan briefly inspected the contents of the closet. Hanging neatly on
racks were blue and gold military uniforms, the creases as sharp as razors, the buttons gleaming
with polish. "These are Air Force dress uniforms."
Cradling her S&W .38 on a crooked elbow, Krysty furrowed her brow. "But the last couple of
rooms held green Army fatigues."
"A combined military base?"
"Never heard of that before, but why not?"
Ryan made no reply, keeping his own counsel.
"Strange there are no women," Dean said.
"Maybe the leaders did the killing," Mildred replied. "It's happened before."
A metallic noise from the hallway made everybody drop behind furniture, and they waited
quietly until two sharp short whistles sounded. Leveling his longblaster at the partially closed
door, Ryan whistled once long and low. A few seconds later, his call was repeated exactly. They
relaxed and stood as J.B., Jak and Doc entered the room.
"Anything? Ryan asked, shouldering the rifle.
"We found the fifth level burned to the walls," J.B. stated. "The sort of damage done by
bathtub Molotov cocktails. Very crude stuff, gasoline and soapflakes. The sixth held the armory
and storage. That was full of corpses and more traps. I had to cope with two on the stairwell, a
trip wire at the door, a gren attached to a light switch and a crossbow hidden in the-"
"Closet?"
"Crapper. You had some of the same, eh?"
Ryan nodded grimly.
"Kitchen was also clean," Doc said, pulling close a chair and checking underneath it
before sitting. "There was not so much as a potato peel or eggshell in the larder. Even the
cooking oil in the fryers was gone."
"Probably used it in the Molotovs," Ryan stated. Studying the predark books on a wall
shelf, Mildred said absentmindedly, "Peanut's the best." She pulled out a volume, only to put it
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right back. Damn, only operation manuals full of abort codes. Nothing interesting.
"Any salt?" Krysty asked, resting a boot on an overturned ammo box, its sides streaked
with blood.
The elderly man patted a lumpy pocket in his frock coat. "And some spices."
"Mint?" Mildred asked eagerly.
"A pinch."
"Excellent." She looked at Ryan. "Means we won't be losing lunch on the next mat-trans
jump."
Removing his wire-rimmed glasses and polishing them on the end of his shirt, J.B. studied
the room. "Nightcreeps, eh? What did they think was so bastard precious down here?"
"Redoubt itself," Jak suggested.
"Something's wrong," Ryan announced. "Let's check the top level. That's where we should
find our answer."
"Roger."
"Check."
"Sounds good."
"Yes, sir."
"Doc found the second elevator," J.B. said, following his old friend. "It's in the south
end. But I can't recommend using it. Too many traps around."
"Take no chances," Ryan said, working the bolt action on the Steyr. "Shoot anything that
moves. I'm on point, J.B. at the rear. Let's go."
The friends proceeded carefully upward. The door on the next level proved to be closed and
locked, but with brilliant light seeping from underneath the jamb. After listening for a while,
J.B. did his usual magic and the door opened with a minimum of fuss. Inside was a standard
military changing room with most of the wall lockers standing ajar. They usually would have done a
quick search. Many times they'd found amazing and often useful things that others left behind for
no apparent reason.
But the search would wait. The ceiling lights were abnormally bright, brutally
illuminating the scene before them in monstrous clarity. A single wooden chair sat in the middle
of the room, and sitting limply in it was a girl of no more than ten or twelve years. Her head was
tilted, her blond hair streaked with red blood, and lying on the floor beside her was a smoking
blaster.
Chapter Three
The seven friends advanced into the room, moving slowly as if mired in molasses. They had
seen death hundreds of times, but that didn't make finding a dead child any easier.
"Jak, J.B.," Ryan said, jerking his rifle in different directions. The two men moved off
to disappear around the standing rows of lockers. They reappeared a second later at the other end
of the room, and gave the clear signal.
Dropping her med kit, Mildred knelt beside the girl and took a limp hand in her own. She pressed
on the thumbnail and watched the results. "Dead no more than minutes," she announced. "Skin is
warm, blood is viscous and lividity isn't present."
"Minutes?"
"Still smoking," Jak said, pointing to the blaster on the floor. Shifting his rifle, Ryan
lifted the pistol. "Barrel is warm," he said, cracking the cylinder. It contained six cartridges
of assorted makes, one spent shell. "We just missed her."
Holstering her .38 pistol. Krysty cursed bitterly. "That must have been the odd noise we
heard before. A gunshot muffled by the floors between us."
"Makes sense."
"Just skin and bones," Doc rumbled, leaning against a closed locker.
"Check her numbers," Ryan suggested.
The physician brushed aside the bloody hair covering the neck. "Yes, her elevens are showing."
Everybody knew what that meant. They saw a lot of it in the nukelands of America. When a
person got close to death by starvation, the twin tendons at the back of the neck would begin to
stand out prominently. It was the sure sign that death was only days, maybe hours, away.
"There was no food in the kitchen, or in storage," Mildred said. "No food anywhere that
we've seen."
Her hair tightened fiercely about her face as Krysty frowned. "Which means the only thing
left to consume was-"
"The dead men." Ryan scowled. "That's a choice few of us can make."
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file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20E-books/Axler,%20James...20(\12/55)/050%20-%20Pandora's%20Reboubt%20-%20Nick%20Pollotta.txtPandora'sRedoubtDeanscannedthearea."Where'sKrysty?"Startled,Ryanjerkedhisheadaround.Oneglancetoldhimshewasn'ti\nthetankwiththem.Rushingtoablasterport,theone-eyedmanbl...

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