James Axler - Deathlands 003 - Neutron Solstice

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Ryan Cawdor never heard the swampies

One moment he was up and walking; the next he was rolling over on hands and

knees, the G-12 pulled from his grip, someone's arm around his throat, another

attacker hanging on his waist, kicking at his legs. A stench of gasoline and sweat

assaulted his nostrils as he grappled with the oily bodies.

There were three of them: two men and a woman. Muties, like the ones they'd

seen on the day they arrived in Louisiana. All were about five feet tall, stumpy,

squat and muscular, in torn pants and shirts, their feet in flapping sandals of

hacked rubber. All three breathed noisily through open mouths.

Suddenly the woman raised a small crossbow, aiming it jerkily at Ryan's belly.

The thought darted through his mind that this was a squalid and foolish way to

die.

DEATHLANDS

Neutron Solstice

By James Axler

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • PARIS • AMSTERDAM •

STOCKHOLM • HAMBURG

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ATHENS • MILAN • TOKYO • SYDNEY

First edition March 1987 ISBN 0-373-62503-

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 M3B 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.

The Worldwide Library trademarks, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and

the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of the word

WORLDWIDE in which the letter "O" is represented by a depiction of a globe,

are trademarks of Worldwide Library.

Printed in Canada

Prologue

A GLISTENING PEARL OF sweat ran down between the woman's breasts,

across the flat stomach, into the vee of curling dark hair. Another drop slid past

her parted lips, over her chin, hung suspended for a moment, then fell through the

smoky air and landed with delicate precision on the polished blade of the tiny

silver dagger.

Her dark skin was smooth, her tumbling hair as black as the wing of a raven at

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midnight. She was naked, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, a yard from a

smoldering fire of hewn cottonwood branches. It was difficult to guess her age.

From her body you might have thought she was in her early twenties. Then you

might have looked into her face.

The cheeks were pocked and scarred, with open sores weeping around her mouth.

The lips were full, slightly parted as she panted in the heat. Most of her teeth were

missing, and those that remained were yellow and chipped, jostling each other for

space, like tumbled gravestones.

But it was her eyes that held you like an insect trapped in a web.

They were pale as watered milk, with a thin membrane drawn across each cornea,

like a veil of finest lace. Beneath the pallid shroud the eyes moved, darting and

jerking.

Her right hand gripped the knife, the hilt made from the middle finger of a man,

the joints bound with silver filigree, an uncut ruby set at its pommel. The blade

was about four inches long, razored on both edges, the tip needle-sharp. The

flickering light in the reed-roofed hut revealed lettering engraved along the blade

in twining, ornate script.

La Mort Lente.

The slow death.

In her left hand the blind woman clutched a small fluttering feathered creature. A

red-winged blackbird, head turning from side to side, its tiny bright eyes rolling

against the sheen of its plumage.

Inside the hut were more than a dozen men, most wearing cotton trousers, some

with ragged shirts. Nearly all of them had tightly-curled cropped hair, with faces

that betrayed an African ancestry. They knelt in the dirt, eyes locked on the

woman's mutilated face, hands folded in their laps, as if in prayer.

One of them rose and scattered a handful of dry powder on the glowing ashes of

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the fire, sending a cloud of dense white smoke toward the hole in the roof that

served as a chimney. White smoke tinged with scarlet filled the hut with a

bittersweet scent.

The woman lifted her hands, bringing both the silver knife and the fluttering bird

nearer the blind eyes. She breathed in deeply, her body trembling, the nipples

becoming erect, fire-tipped, like cherries. She opened her mouth, whispering to

the waiting men in a voice harsh and grating. The language was a sort of French, a

debased and corrupt form of the tongue that had originated four hundred of years

before with Creole settlers from Haiti.

"As I see, so shall this far-flying singer upon wings see."

The hut was silent and still, and only the frail scratchings of the bird's claws upon

the skin of the woman's hand betrayed movement. Outside, the wind had fallen

away as night set its grip tighter upon the land.

"For us and for the baron and for life beyond and life within, I do this thing."

"Do this thing," came the mumbled chorus from the watchers.

The hands came together, the point of the knife seeking the gleaming eyes of the

blackbird. Slowly, with the care and skill of long practice, the woman pricked out

both of the creature's eyes, blinding it. A thread of bright blood streaked the

feathers of its chest as it opened its beak and gave out a piercing screech of pain

and black terror. But the woman held tight.

"Sing not and speak not and see not. But let the pinions bear upward that we

might see where hope shall beckon."

She lowered her head and breathed on the injured bird, soothing it, stroking the

feathers at the nape of its neck with her fingers. Opening her right hand and letting

the stiletto fall in the dirt, she cupped the left hand so that the bird nestled there,

unmoving. Then she raised her arms toward the hole on the roof.

"Fly free! "she cried.

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For a frozen moment, nothing happened. The loops of graying smoke curled lazily

up toward the sky. The bird turned its head from side to side, as if desperately

seeking a salvation from its darkness. Minute specks of blood dappled the

woman's forearm.

"Fly free," she repeated.

The red-winged blackbird finally made a feeble halfhearted effort to fly, beating

its wings in a flurry of motion. It rose halfway toward the chimney hole, then

faltered. There was a gasp of horror from the men as it fell, then rose again, and

finally fell a second and final time. It plunged into the fire, flailing as the air filled

with the stench of burned feathers. No one tried to save it. That would not have

been appropriate.

It was a balding, wizened man who broke the shocked silence. "Why? Why did it

not show the road that must be taken?"

The woman turned her opaque, sightless eyes toward the speaker, and he took a

hesitant step back, as though he'd been struck across the face.

"There is a season for all things. A season to live and a season to die. Even the

proudest of men must one day fall into decay. Stay quiet while I look inward."

She began to rock slowly back and forth on her heels, her hands weaving an

intricate pattern in the smoke-filled air. Quietly she started to hum a queer,

keening tune that had no words. Then gradually the harsh Creole lyrics came

through, telling of a land where there was only honor, humility, truth and courage.

Yet a land where the shadows roamed, even in the brightness of dawn. Where a

midsummer banquet was darkened by the whispering of distant thunder.

The song ended, and they all heard the rising wind outside the hut. The blind

woman stopped rocking, stretching out her arms, jerking her head back so the

sinews in her throat stood out like cords of wire. Her breath came fast, her body

shook as if gripped by fever.

Suddenly she relaxed, gazed across the room, over the fire. Her mouth dropped,

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and for a moment her face held an expression of simpering idiocy. That, too,

passed and she spoke.

"As stands the baron high, so shall he be brought low. Not from within but from

without. He…" Her voice faded.

"What? What will ail him?" whispered the bald man.

The woman trembled, mouth sagging. Her eyes gaped wide in terror, the

whiteness dreadful, as if someone pressed them from behind. Then she screamed.

And again. A rasping, high noise, like a stallion being put to the gelding.

"They come!"

The voice filled the hut, spilled out through the thin walls into the moist warmth

of the surrounding land. It hung in the air like a raised fist.

She screamed again, locked into her trance. "They come!"

"Who? Who comes?"

She ignored the question, once more screaming the same two words. "They come,

they come, they come!"

Outside, the swamp stretched limitlessly in all directions as far as man could

know. Within its depths there was a slow stirring, as if it could sense something

happening, something utterly new.

Chapter One

RYAN CAWDOR STIRRED and opened his eyes.

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The last tendrils of the mist were clearing away. On the floor the pattern of raised

metallic disks no longer glowed. The same pattern on the ceiling of the hexagonal

chamber reflected his own face, distorted and blurred. The walls were of smoked

armored glass, tinted a deep blue. It was much the same as other gateways that

Ryan had been in. Maybe a little cleaner and in better condition than some of

them.

He took a quick glance around him. Something else struck Ryan. This particular

gateway was warm. Indeed, after his recent sojourn in the biting chill of the land

that had once been called Alaska, it was uncomfortably hot.

Even though it had been days since he'd been wounded, the small cut on his left

hand still stung. Then, he had been in the extreme northwest of the country, still in

the grip of nuclear winter. From the heat he guessed that they were somewhere

down south, and toward the east. By his calculation it was around the middle of

February.

Around the chamber, all slumped over like untidy bundles of clothing, were

Ryan's six comrades. Four of them had been with him since they had traveled on

the armored War Wag One, with the Trader, roaming across the Deathlands of

Central United States, buying cheap and selling dear. They'd been fighting for life

in a country that was still ninety-five percent devastated from the great nuclear

war of January, 2001, nearly a hundred years ago.

The first of them to be showing signs of recovery was J. B. Dix, the Armorer.

Around forty years of age, lean and compact, J.B. knew more about weapons than

anyone alive. His battered fedora sat at a rakish angle on his forehead; his wire-

rimmed glasses had slid down his thin, sallow face.

He blinked awake, his right hand going in a conditioned reflex to the Mini-Uzi

that rested across his lap. The big Steyr AUG 5.6 mm pistol was bolstered on his

right hip.

"Hot, Ryan," he said.

J.B. was a man of very few words. And all of them were relevant.

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"Yeah," replied Ryan. He thought about standing up and decided he didn't quite

feel ready for that, not just yet. The patch over the empty right eye socket had

moved a little, and he edged it back into place. The butt of his pistol—a SIG-

Sauer P-226 9 mm handgun with fifteen rounds in the mag—banged against the

glass, and he reached to his hip to adjust it. On the opposite hip Ryan carried a

panga with an eighteen-inch blade. His immediate and obvious armaments were

completed by the Heckler & Koch G-12 automatic rifle and fifty caseless rounds

of 4.7 mm.

Nobody in Deathlands ever worried about having too many weapons.

"Doc looks ill," commented J.B.

Ryan glanced across the gateway chamber at the oldest and most mysterious

member of their party.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner. "Doc." Tall and skinny, aged around sixty, with

peculiarly excellent teeth. Doc had a deep, resonant voice, and often spoke in a

strangely old-fashioned way. He was sprawled on his side, breathing noisily

through his gaping mouth. His battered stovepipe hat had rolled across the

gateway chamber. The ebony sword stick with the silver lion's-head top was in his

lap, and the bizarre Le Mat percussion pistol was holstered at his belt.

Doc had been rescued from the ugly township of Mocsin, his mind better than half

gone. But he seemed to have a lot of arcane knowledge, touching on the

technology of the past. The far past, even before the bombs and missiles ruined

the land.

Next to him, Finnegan and Hennings propped each other up. The former, stout

and short, carried a gray Heckler & Koch submachine gun with a drum mag of

fifty rounds of 9 mm and a built-in silencer, Hennings was a tall black man with

an identical HK54A gun by his right hand.

Old friends from the days with Ryan Cawdor and J. B. Dix on the war wag, they

were tough-fighting men, fiercely independent, each with a dark and macabre

sense of humor.

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Both men wore identical clothes, more like uniforms: dark blue high-necked

jumpers, with matching pants. Both in black midcalf combat boots, with steel toe

caps.

Lori Quint lay next to Doc. Ryan had noticed over the past few days that the old

man and the six-foot blond teenager had been becoming increasingly friendly. It

wasn't that surprising. In Deathlands the first thing you needed was a reliable

weapon. A friend came a close second.

Lori had been the second wife of mad, ragged Quint, the Keeper of the redoubt in

Alaska that concealed the gateway. The long fur coat that she wore in the chilly

north was by her side, but now she wore a short maroon suede skirt, hiked up

around her long tanned limbs. The red satin blouse was torn and stained. She

stirred as consciousness came creeping back, the tiny silver spurs on her

thighboots of crimson leather tinkling with a thin clear sound. Her only gun was a

small pearl-handled PPK .22 pistol.

Ryan, feeling the familiar dizziness and pressure behind the eyes from previous

jumps, eventually decided to make an effort to stand. At his side, Krysty Wroth

was coming around. He looked down at her, filling with a great wave of affection.

That was the best word he could believe about it. "Love" was a word that was not

much used by Ryan Cawdor.

"By the Earth Mother, Ryan, it's hot in this place."

"I figure we're somewhere far to the southeast."

"Still in Deathlands?"

"Mebbe beyond."

With no apparent effort, the girl uncoiled herself to stand by him. Ryan was a

good two inches clear of six feet, but she was less than a palm's span below him.

He marveled at her amazing powers of recovery. Though the others were all

moving, moaning and sighing, Krysty's green eyes were bright as ever, and she

was leaning against the glass wall, arranging her staggeringly bright red hair with

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long fingers. The girl wore khaki coveralls, tucked into a beautiful pair of cowboy

boots, also from the Alaskan redoubt. They were hand-stitched in blue calf,

overlaid with silver falcons, wings spread wide. The toes of the boots were knife-

sharp, chiseled from silver. Her gun was also silvered, a 9 mm Heckler & Koch

P7A-13.

In the next few minutes they all managed to stand, though Lori felt sick, kneeling

with vomit drooling from her mouth. Doc knelt at her side with a cracking of knee

joints, putting a comforting arm around the girl.

"Where we come? Hot. Never known hot. How we come to this? Walls different

color."

"Tell her, Doc," said J.B. "Like to hear how you explain it to the dummy."

Doc Tanner scowled at the Armorer. "I would be obliged, Mr. Dix, if you would

refrain from calling Miss Quint a dummy. She is not a mute. Nor a mutie. That

foul imbecile Quint never educated her and kept her in a state of terror. She is as

bright as you or I." He paused for a moment. "Certainly as bright as you."

"Fireblast!" swore Ryan. "It's bastard hot. Guess I'll leave my coat here."

Dropping the long garment with its white fir trim to the floor, he hesitated, then

retrieved a white silk scarf with weighted ends from a pocket.

"Why hot? My head hurts." Lori stood and leaned against Doc. Finnegan seemed

as though he was going to make some joke about the oddly matched couple, then

caught Ryan's good eye and closed his mouth.

"The pain will abate, child," Doc said. "We are now in some other, hotter part of

what was the United States. Unless we have been carried to one of the gateways

that was established in… But let us not consider that for a while."

Ryan listened, puzzled. Doc occasionally dropped strange hints about the

gateways and what they could do. As if he possessed more knowledge than he

possibly could.

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d10RyanCawdorneverheardtheswampiesOnemomenthewasupandwalking;thenexthewasrollingoveronhands\andknees,theG-12pulledfromhisgrip,someone'sarmaroundhisthroat,a\notherattackerhangingonhiswaist,kickingathislegs.Astenchofgasoline\andsweatassaultedhisnostrilsashegrappledwiththeoilybodies.Therewerethreeofthe...

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James Axler - Deathlands 003 - Neutron Solstice

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