Axler, James - Deathlands 15 - Chill Factor

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The cliff face bulged out, releasing a wave of pent-up slurry that knocked

Ryan off his feet.

His mouth filled with the stinking ooze, and he fought for his life, struggling in

blind desperation to get back onto his feet.

The initial tide eased, and he managed to claw himself upright, fumbling for his

shovel. He wiped his eye clear of the mud and looked around frantically for Dean.

But the boy had vanished under the wall of earth, mud and water.

"Get help, Kate! Call the sec men. Need shovels here, now!"

The noise of feet rattled on the ladder, and someone bellowed orders, shouting for

everyone to get out before the whole place caved in.

"There's folks trapped!" Ryan called, his digging fingers suddenly touching

something soft and yielding, flesh within cloth. The one-eyed man scrabbled in

the yellow muck, heaving out a limp little body.

"Leave him be," the sec man ordered. "We'll get him up top."

"I'll carry him," Ryan insisted, not even looking at the guard.

Ryan didn't see the rifle butt as it went crashing into the side of his skull. He

recovered and reached for the sec man, his fingers clawing for the pale, staring

face. But the M-16 swung down a second time, and he toppled into a dark chasm

of unconsciousness.

Chill Factor

# 15 in the Deathland series

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James Axler

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY •

HAMBURG • STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID •

WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is

stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and

neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped

book."

Once he rode with the rest of the cavalry.

Now he's keeping me company,

heading out together into the promised land.

With very sincere thanks for all his help over many years in keeping the payroll

safe from the Apaches, this is for Don Day.

First edition May 1992

ISBN 0-373-62515-4

CHILL FACTOR

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this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other

means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying

and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden

without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill

Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada MSB 3K9.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the

author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or

names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown

to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office

and in other countries.

Printed in U.S.A.

Most of us would not be capable of taking the life of another human being,

whatever the provocation. A minority might do it if sufficiently aroused. But

there have always been and always will be, the mercifully small

number of men, and women, who can kill. And kill. And kill again.

from The Upward Spiral of Death by Hamilton Binder,

1903

Chapter One

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The walls of the gateway were silvered glass, and Ryan Cawdor knew that

they were back in New Mexico. The jump hadn't been too bad.

Outside the ruined redoubt the morning sun was breaking over the mountains to

the east, throwing long shadows across the desert.

The companions managed to pick their way down onto the level ground without

any difficulty, Doc Tanner and Mildred Wyeth helping each other over the steeper

sections. Ryan was worried to see new tracks on the trail outside the military

complex.

"Someone's coming," Krysty Wroth said, busily tying her hair back off her neck

with a black bandanna.

The rising sun was in the youth's face, highlighting his dazzling white hair. There

was no possibility of mistaking Jak Lauren.

He was riding a bay mare, spurring the horse on at a fast trot that turned into a

dust-burning gallop when he spotted the little group of friends.

Krysty stared intently toward him as he closed the gap to a hundred yards. Her

face was set like pale marble, and she reached out to grip Ryan by the wrist, hard

enough to make him wince.

"Oh, no," she said, her voice soft and shocked.

Jak reined in the sweating, lathered horse, throwing himself from the saddle.

"Heard your radio message. You hear mine?"

"No. What?"

The teenager's eyes blazed like chips of nuked ruby. "Dean."

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Ryan stared at him, wondering what could have happened to his ten-year-old son.

"What?"

"Taken."

"When?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Christina shot one of the gang."

"And?"

"Questioned him."

"Still got him?" Ryan was unable to control the anxiety in his voice.

"Died," Jak replied, as laconic as ever.

"Why didn't you ask him all—"

"Did. Slavers. North. Used gateway. Took Dean."

Ryan suddenly thought of the LD button—Last Destination. If this gang had

jumped, then he could follow them. It wasn't all lost. Not yet.

"I'll go after them," he said. "Food and a rest, and then I'll go."

Jak nodded. "One other thing from wounded man. Before died."

"What?"

"Slavers' leader."

"Yeah?"

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"Russian. Name Zimyanin."

Chapter Two

The corpse lay in a small barn to the east of the main house.

In warm weather it didn't take long for a human body to start deteriorating. Only a

few hours and the eyes began to melt back into their sockets. The soft tissues of

the mouth, nose and throat rotted next, along with the genital area.

The man had died around fifteen hours earlier and had been placed on an old door

that stood on a trestle table.

It had gone through the brief period of rigor mortis and now looked relaxed, the

skin darkening. The man was naked, head back, staring blankly at the roof beams

above him in the dusty darkness. His hair was graying, cropped short, with an old

scar seaming the side of the scalp just above the left ear.

He might almost have been asleep, if it hadn't been for the dreadful mutilations.

Christina had greeted them with a solemn pleasure, showing the way across to the

barn. The strain of the last day showed on her face. She limped more heavily than

usual, the built-up boot on her left foot dragging through the dust.

"Did you both question him?" Ryan asked.

Jak looked at his wife. "Both."

"Bullet killed him," Mildred said, leaning over to examine the dark-rimmed hole

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in the center of the man's chest, framed with the lacy pattern of dried blood.

"Lungs. Can't have taken too long for him to die. Not just from that."

Jak nodded. "Knew that. Knew wouldn't live much. Had to find out where boy

went."

The black doctor straightened. "Someone made it a hard passing for him. Carving

knife, hot irons. Razor? Yeah, a razor. Needle by the eyes and through the end of

his penis."

Doc coughed and turned away. "Think I'll go outside and get myself a smidgen of

fresh air," he said. "Seems a tad humid in here. Just a little oppressive."

He went out, leaving the double doors ajar, so that a carpet of golden sunlight

spilled across the straw and dust. It reached just to the foot of the makeshift table.

"I tortured him," Christina admitted. "Jak tied him so he couldn't move an inch. I

made him go out while I did it. Best that way. Not a pretty sight what I did to the

bastard."

There were rope burns around the man's wrists and ankles, and around his

scrawny throat. The cords had been knotted so tightly that the pattern could still

be seen on the skin, and blood had burst from under fingernails and toenails.

"You did right," Krysty said, touching the older woman on the arm.

"Once the boy's gone, one of the disappeared ones, you could search Deathlands

all your life and never find him. Least we know more or less where he's been

taken."

Ryan asked the question that had been tormenting him since Jak told him who the

slavers' leader had been. "Did he say that they'd come specially for Dean? That

this Zimyanin knew he was my son?"

Christina looked surprised. "No. Why should he? Man said they raided all around

the Southwest and along the Big Miss River. Need them to work up north. Why

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should they have known who the boy was?"

"Long story," Ryan replied. "Tell us about the raid, and I'll tell you about

Zimyanin."

She nodded. "Got a stew near ready. Must be hungered. Let's go in."

Ryan took a last glance at the tortured corpse. "How about him?"

"Bury tonight," Jak said.

THERE WAS little conversation during the meal. Everyone was too concerned

with eating. Christina was an excellent cook. They ate beef stew, with potatoes

and turnip greens, a rich gravy, flavored with herbs that she grew out in the trim

back garden. There was fresh-baked cornbread and some blueberry muffins with

butter and peach preserve.

Doc leaned back, his chair grating on the floor, and sighed. "Upon my soul, my

dear young lady, but that was a feast fit for a prince. My sincere compliments on

your culinary skill."

Christina smiled, almost for the first time since their arrival. "Why, thank you,

Doc. My mother used to do her best, but…" The smile vanished like the dew off

the morning prairie, and the sentence trailed away into stillness.

J. B. Dix filled the silence. Wiping a dribble of melted butter from his stubbled

chin, he looked at Christina. "Tell us about how they came at you."

WITH OCCASIONAL interruptions and additions from Jak, she told them what

had happened. Sleeves rolled up, elbows on the table, Christina kept it short and

simple.

Dean had been checking fences, riding a pinto pony. He'd carried a small .22

hunting rifle in a saddle holster. Christina had given him some bread and bacon to

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carry him through the morning, with a canteen of spring water.

"No danger," Jak said. "Not been any trouble for long time here."

Ryan nodded. "Hell, I know that."

Jak had been working on a broken blade off the main windmill, up a long narrow

ladder, and Christina had been salting down some pork in one of the sheds.

"Fine day. Few clouds to the south. Saw an old miner with his lame burro on the

trail. See him every few months. He didn't stop."

Ryan interrupted her. "Could he be a scenter for these men?"

She shook her head. "No. Old Josiah couldn't pull the wings off a dead butterfly.

About an hour after he passed I saw the dust."

There was a silence. Mildred reached and poured herself a mug of coffee-sub

from the blue enameled pot. All of them knew that the sudden appearance of

strangers on the road in Deathlands could mean instant trouble.

"Was higher. Saw better. But can't make out too good in bright sun."

Being an albino, with death-white skin and pink eyes, Jak had never been able to

see very well in a strong light, though he saw better than most in semi-darkness.

Christina took up the story again.

"Dean was spurring his pony, about a hundred paces ahead of them."

"How many?" J.B. asked.

"About fifteen. Maybe twelve. Maybe twenty. Broken land like all over

here…can't be certain of the numbers."

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"Armed with…"

She looked at J.B., who'd taken off his glasses, wiping dirt off them.

Jak answered. "Haven't got your cunning. Only heard long guns. One we caught

had small-caliber hideaway blaster and repaired carbine."

"What kind of discipline did they have?" This was a major question, and Ryan

waited for the answer. There were enough gangs of raggedy killers all over

Deathlands. They rose like a foul growth of weeds and generally didn't last more

than a few weeks before they perished, months at the outside.

"Good. Skirmish line around house. Tried long enough. Pulled back. Tried to get

wounded man. Too close. Left him."

"Yeah. Go on. How about Dean?"

"They shot his pony from under him."

Christina finished the brief story. "After they took Dean they came and tried for

us. By then Jak was in the house and we had the firefight shutters up. One we

shot—"

"You shot," Jak contradicted, unable to hide his pride. "Better'n me with long

blasters. Knocked over in dirt by corral fence."

"Thought I'd chilled him clean." Christina smiled again. "Went over, legs kicking,

like a brain-dead gopher. Think I hit a couple of others. Jak found blood after

they'd gone."

He nodded. "Pool. Drag marks in grass like hauled off."

"Can we see what he was wearing and carrying?" J.B. stood.

"Out back. I'll tidy up in here."

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Axler, James - Deathlands 15 - Chill Factor

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