Chapter Six

 

 

Ryan and the companions took their gear from the Land Rover and stowed it in the three upstairs rooms reserved for their use. The rooms were small, but furnished with brass-railed beds and chairs. A bathroom was down the hall, done in gleaming porcelain with chrome-plated fixtures.

 

After getting settled, the six friends met on the street outside the saloon, then took a tour of the ville, letting the settlement flow around them. The mingled odors, the colors, the people and the strange music made by old predark instruments were interesting but also unsettling. All of them had been in odd places during their treks across Deathlands, but never had they visited a ville that throbbed with such a pulse of incredibly strong but joyful evil.

 

By engaging a few of the street merchants in conversation, they learned that the permanent residents of Helskel lived in an insular world, a universe completely separated from the rest of the ravaged continent. Their world was Helskel. Changes, rebuilding processes, old and new baronies were of absolutely no interest, and, in effect, didn't exist for them. This was their microcosmic kingdom, and anyone desiring to live among them had to think like them, believe like them and be like them.

 

After bumping into this thick-headed attitude a number of times during the afternoon, J.B. was irritated enough to ask Mildred, "What's all this crap they spout about Charlie?"

 

As they walked, Mildred explained in terse, low-voiced sentences. "Charles Manson was one of the most famous criminals of predark history. I was just a little kid when he was arrested, but I remember the publicity storm. He and his family were so famous, they became part of popular culture."

 

Noting the blank expression on Jak's face, Doc said, "The media, like television, radio, movies, magazines."

 

"Anyway," Mildred continued, "Manson was terrifying in a lot of ways. He relished publicity and even while he was in prison, his cult of followers who had murdered people at his command were still his subjects. Most of his followers, his 'family,' were women, and they shaved their heads as part of some ritual on his behalf. When he carved an X into his forehead, they did too."

 

"How many people did his family chill?" Ryan asked.

 

"God knows. There were a lot of unsolved murders they were suspected of, but Manson mainly targeted people he considered pigs."

 

"Pigs?" J.B. echoed.

 

"Pigs. That was his word for the upper class. The wealthy, the famous, the people who had the power in predark days." Mildred's eyes narrowed. "I believe the term 'creepy-crawl,' which is used so much in Deathlands, was derived from a family practice."

 

"Manson came along at the right time, or the wrong time, depending on your point of view. The period of history he walked through was a time of cultural experimentationfree love, spiritual liberation, drug use and a half-baked religiosity were all tenets of the so-called hippie movement."

 

Doc cleared his throat. "I remember reading about it. The movement seemed exceptionally natural and idyllic, and along came Charles Manson and his family, living what appeared to be the typical hippie life out on a ranch near Los Angeles. It was a communal life-style, and Manson espoused his own cockamamy religion. His followers called him either God, Jesus or Man's Son. They believed he was the new messiah, the modern reincarnation of Christ. He reached the point where he believed it himself."

 

Mildred nodded. "There was more to it than that, of course. Manson specialized in creating zombie-minded followers. His family had degrees of initiation, indoctrination techniques using isolation, hypnosis, drugs and discipleship to create a web to ensnare innocents."

 

"As I recall," Doc said, "Manson believed that all people were part of one vast mystical whole, so there was really no such thing as death, and murder wasn't really a sin."

 

Ryan shrugged. "I've run across crazier beliefs than that."

 

"Maybe," Mildred said. "But one of Manson's articles of faith was that a popular British musical group were prophets, and if you listened very carefully to their songs, particularly one called 'Helter Skelter,' you could hear exactly what was going to happen in the not too distant future."

 

"Which was?" Krysty inquired.

 

"An apocalypse that would start when all black people rose up and killed all white people, except for Manson and his followers, who would emerge at the end of the battle to rule the world. As the story goes, after a few years, once the victorious blacks found they were unable to govern, they'd turn the reins of power over to him. The world he used to describe as coming to pass is very much like this one."

 

"Sounds like Helter Skelter had something for everybody," Krysty said with a wry smile. "Racist fantasies, violence-prone crazies, plunderers, rapists."

 

"Yes," Doc agreed dolefully. "Truly a dream world for ambulatory sociopaths. Every type of insanity could be indulged and encouraged in the land of Helter Skelter."

 

"Helter Skelter," Ryan repeated. "That was the name of Baron Zapp's tower stronghold in Greenglades, down in Florida."

 

"And don't forget that coldheart killer, Traven," J.B. reminded him. "Thinking about it, seems like he borrowed a lot from this Manson." Turning to Mildred, he demanded, "Why didn't you mention this stuff then?"

 

"Partly because the connection wasn't as obvious as this one. Besides, a Helter Skelter is a kind of slide in English amusement parks, and since we were in an amusement park, I didn't put the pieces together."

 

"The apocalypse didn't happen exactly the way Manson hoped it would," Doc said, returning to the subject at hand.

 

"No," Mildred replied. "So he tried to help it along by killing as many people as he could, or having his zombie family members do it. Manson would say, 'Helter Skelter is coming down' or 'now is the time for Helter Skelter.' When he made that proclamation, his family went out and butchered people. Some were strangled, hanged, disemboweled or shot. Or all three. They painted the words Helter Skelter on the walls in the victims' own blood."

 

Ryan shook his head in disgust. "Even if those chillings brought about the war he wanted, how did Manson figure that he wouldn't be wiped out, too?"

 

Before Mildred could answer, a man wearing a sleeveless leather jacket sitting astride a chopped-down motorcycle roared in a dust-spurting circle around them, his toothless mouth grinning lasciviously at Krysty. Her hair stirred and snapped tight to her nape, and her right hand eased down to caress the butt of the .38-caliber Smith amp; Wesson 640 holstered at her hip.

 

The biker saw the movement, and he blew her a kiss before turning the motorcycle up the avenue and away from them. All of them saw the winged skull emblem sewn on the back of the jacket, and the legend Hell's Angels printed above it.

 

Mildred pointed to the biker. "Manson encouraged bike gangs to join the family and supply the military wing. Looks like Hellstrom is playing the same riff."

 

"Bullshit," J.B. spit. "Those so-called Angels we ran up against in Snakefish a few years ago were triple stupes. Military wing, my ass."

 

"Stupes they might be," Ryan said, "but it wouldn't surprise me a bit if some of these bikers weren't veterans of that fight. If they recognize us, we might have to fight our way out of Helskel."

 

"What happened Manson?" Jak asked. "Chilled?" There was a hopeful note in his voice.

 

"Unfortunately, no," Mildred replied. "The murders weren't the catalyst for the great war he hoped for. Instead, Manson and a number of his people were arrested and sentenced to death. A change in the law commuted that sentence to life imprisonment. While he was in jail, his family of followers grewsick people who were attracted to his vision of a ruined wasteland of a world."

 

Mildred paused and waved at the buildings of Helskel. "Looks like some people never forgot it and used his insanity as a blueprint. All because a depraved mass murderer had a talent for philosophy and hogwash a hundred years ago. This is the world according to Chairman Charlie."

 

Doc ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "If the notion weren't so absurdly ugly, so ludicrously repellent, I would spend my visit here laughing. Or weeping."

 

"Whatever Helskel is or isn't, it has a lot going for it," Ryan commented. "Electricity, guns, gasoline. They're a damn sight better off than most villes and baronies we've seen."

 

"I must concur. But I find the amount of working predark technology in their possession rather unsettling," Doc commented. "If not outright disturbing."

 

"The question is," J.B. put in, "where did this group of triple stupes find it all?"

 

They continued their tour of Helskel through the gathering dusk. Ryan spied Fleur leaning up against the support post of a building, talking to the biker they'd seen earlier. Though she kept up her end of the conversation, she watched Ryan all the while, fingering the long knife at her waist, staring at him with her single eye of cold azure.

 

Something knotted in the pit of Ryan's stomach like a length of slimy rope.

 

They returned to the principal market square and listened to the performance of a band of minstrels. They weren't very good, and the lyrics nonsensical, but they were drawing nods of approval and applause nevertheless. At the end of the performance, one of the musicians attributed the authorship of the song to Charles Manson.

 

Ryan felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he looked into Phil's smiling face.

 

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked..

 

"To a point." Behind him, Ryan glimpsed Dog and Suds in the crowd. Evidently Dog hadn't forgotten about the kicking incident, glaring at him over Phil's shoulder. Ryan knew the man was scheming a payback.

 

"Good," Phil said. "The patriarch wanted me to tell you about a Family function tonight, at midnight. You need to be in your rooms by then."

 

"Why?"

 

"Family and novitiates only. Everybody else off the street by nine."

 

As if no more could be said on the subject, Phil turned and drifted away into the crowd, Dog and Suds joining him.

 

Ryan repeated the message to the others.

 

"I say we pack up and get ourselves gone," J.B. stated.

 

Ryan eyed the dimming sky. "Be full dark soon. Too dangerous to navigate the route at night. Let's grab a bite, turn in and leave at first light."

 

There was an eatery only a few steps down the avenue. It was a small establishment, but seemed fairly clean. The proprietor, an overweight woman with leathery warts adorning her face, handed them handwritten menus. There was an X scar inscribed in her forehead.

 

Before they could look the menus over, she said, "Serving only one dish tonight, folks. It's all we got, so it's the best we got."

 

"In that case," Ryan said, "give us what you've got."

 

The meal was on their table in a jiffy, but after looking at it, Doc mumbled that he wouldn't have minded waiting a little longer.

 

The steaks were rump, and tougher than the old bull they came from. The vegetablesstring beans, tomatoes and baked potatoeswere at least easy on the palate and the digestion.

 

The woman brought over a pot of coffee and cups. "Take your time, let yourself out when you're done," she announced. "I've got to get ready."

 

"For what?" Krysty inquired.

 

"Zadfrak's send-off."

 

"When did he die?" Mildred asked.

 

The woman heaved her downsloping shoulders. "Don't know if he has or hasn't. I just got told to get ready for the function. Attendance is mandatory."

 

With that, she hustled into a back room and disappeared from sight.

 

Doc poured himself a cup of coffee. "In my experience, a funeral is not scheduled until the subject is deceased."

 

He raised the cup to his lips, took a cautious sip and a sudden delight shone from his blue eyes. "By the Three Kennedys! Coffee! Real honest-to-Juan-Valdez coffee !"

 

No one bothered to ask who Juan Valdez was, but everyone else had a cup, too.

 

"Not much difference between this and sub," Jak said, after swallowing a mouthful.

 

"That's because your taste buds have been eroded by years of neglect," Doc replied, gleefully filling his cup again. "I can feel the caffeine caressing my nerve endings already."

 

Frowning, Krysty said, "Guns, fuel, electricity and real coffee. Can't think of a more undeserving lot to have all these blessings."

 

That remark subdued Doc's happy exclamations, but not his thirst for the brew. Everyone sat and waited, content with one cup apiece, while Doc finished the pot.

 

When they left the little eatery, night had fallen and the streets of Helskel were nearly deserted except for a few merchants closing down their stalls. Dust blew in the streets, a cold night wind eddying it along in eye-stinging clouds. Carried by the wind was the sound of activity, northward of Helskel's perimeter. The faint noises were of metal on metal, tools clinking, hammers pounding.

 

"Building something there," Jak stated, gesturing. Half mile."

 

Ryan peered into the darkness. Fleur's thinly veiled threat about curiosity chilling cocky cats came to mind.

 

"Let's get to our rooms," he suggested. "Wouldn't hurt to lock the doors."

 

"If Hellstrom meant us harm," Doc said, "he's going the long away around the barn. He certainly would have disarmed us."

 

J.B. took off his spectacles and wiped the grit-spotted lenses on a sleeve. "Good idea to stay on orange alert, no matter what."

 

They entered the empty saloon and mounted the stairs to their quarters. Once in the room he shared with Krysty, Ryan chair-locked the door. Though they unbuckled their gun belts, they kept their blasters close to hand.

 

The feather mattress was comfortable, but Krysty's body was tense. She held Ryan's hand as he stroked her hair.

 

"This place is a black pit," she said quietly.

 

"A pesthole ville, all right," Ryan replied in the same low tone.

 

"No. There's a something really terrible lurking here."

 

"We'll be on the road at daybreak, lover. We'll never see Hellstrom or this place again."

 

"It's not Hellstrom or even Helskel I fear. It's the resurrection of a predark evil, an evil that may have helped pave the way for the nukecaust."

 

"So they managed to get their hands on a few working predark artifacts. Some people have managed to find stockpiles. It's not commonplace, but it's not all that rare, either."

 

"You don't understand," Krysty said in a faraway voice. "The people here, they're not really people. They're shadow duplicates."

 

"Shadow whats ?"

 

"We've been taught that before the nukecaust, war, rape and murder were aberrations in an otherwise smoothly functioning world."

 

"So?"

 

"Mebbe maniacs like Charlie Manson were the advance guard of the new order that survives, even thrives in the Deathlands. This is their world now, and mebbe we're the abnormal ones."

 

"You mean we're the mutants now?"

 

Krysty hitched over on her side, her breath warm on Ryan's cheek. "We're worse than the mutants," she answered. "Because mutants at least fill some niche. Deathlands created them. But people like us, people who believe in a certain decency, and wish to live in peace with one another, may be in the minority. Mebbe skydark was autumn for the human race, and you and me and Dean and Doc and the test who share similar values and dreams have been displaced by the shadow people. They love the atmosphere of random violence and constant fear. The shadow people have adapted to it, they feed off it, they marvel in it. They're the hollow duplicates of humans, and they wouldn't want the predark world to return even if it were within their power to rebuild it."

 

Ryan didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his tone was barely above a whisper. "I hope you're wrong. I hope Helskel isn't representative of what the world will come to be."

 

The brassy bleat of a trumpet came in through the open window, startling them both so much that they reached for their blasters.

 

They lay quiet in bed, listening for the sound again. When it came, Ryan rolled to his feet and went to the window. By poking his head and shoulders out and craning his neck, he saw of spots of distant torchlight beyond the limits of Helskel.

 

"Something's happening," he said over his shoulder.

 

He heard the horn again, and as he stared at the flickering pinpoints of light, an urge to see what was going on grew within him. It wasn't simple curiosity, or a tactical decision to recce a possible danger that tugged at him. It was a compulsion.

 

A quick rap on the door made him jump and smack his head painfully on the window sash. Krysty didn't laugh. She was sitting up in bed, holding her blaster in a two-handed grip, thumbing back the hammer.

 

"It's me," J.B. said in a hoarse whisper.

 

Removing the chair from beneath the knob, Ryan opened the door and allowed J.B. to enter. In the hallway stood Jak, his ruby eyes shining in the gloom. Behind him were Doc and Mildred, looking keyed up and anxious.

 

"You hear that horn?" J.B. asked.

 

"Yeah."

 

"What do you think it means?"

 

"Probably the function we were told about."

 

J.B. wasn't satisfied with the response. "I think we should check it out."

 

"I think someone wants us to check it out," Krysty said. She had put down her blaster and was massaging her temples with her fingers.

 

"Why?" Ryan asked.

 

Her green eyes narrowed, Krysty said, "Does anyone else feel an almost overwhelming need to go out there?"

 

"Yeah," J.B. replied.

 

"Me too," Ryan stated.

 

"Sure," Jak said.

 

Krysty worried her lower lip with her teeth for a moment. "I suspect we're on the receiving end of a psychic beacon. Very subtle, but very insistent. If I wasn't so sensitive to such influences, I'd just discount the call as impulsive curiosity."

 

"Hellstrom," Ryan stated flatly. "Bastard."

 

Standing up, Krysty strapped on her gun belt and tossed Ryan's to him.

 

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

 

"We've got a lot of questions about Helskel," she replied. "Time to get some answers."

 

"I thought you were afraid."

 

Momentary anger flashed in her eyes, then she smiled sardonically. "I am. But I'm more afraid of what might happen if we don't respond to the invitation."

 

Ryan sighed. "All right, let's move out. Everyone on red alert."

 

They left the saloon by the back door, moving stealthily , blasters in hand, every sense alert. As it turned out, their precautions were unnecessary. No guards were posted; no one hailed them or barred their way. Helskel was as empty of life as a rad zone.

 

The sky overhead was a deep blue-black, stars gleaming frostily around a weak quarter moon. The stars and moonlight provided enough light for them to creep through the sagebrush and scraggly vegetation without stumbling into holes or tripping over rocks.

 

They moved toward the glowing spots of torchlight until they reached the foot of a gentle slope. Ryan took the point, clambering up the deeply furrowed face to the crest. The others watched him peer over it, then drop flat. After a few seconds he gestured for them to join him.

 

Krysty lay down beside him and Ryan whispered into her ear. "I guess this is where it's at."

 

"Christ Almighty," Mildred murmured.