Chapter Twelve

 

 

Contrary to the accepted dogmaHellstrom saidthe end didn't come as a nightmarish surprise to everyone. A select few had realized it was quite inevitable that the world would end in nuclear fire, and long before entire nations were bombed out of existence, this elite group, who were the most powerful men of their day, figured out a way to survive the apocalypse they were responsible for. They had the forethought, foresight and wherewithal to prepare for the worst.

 

Though this group may not have anticipated every repercussion from the nukecaust, such as skydark followed by the big freeze, they were well aware that a Deathlands would take the place of the North American continent.

 

As many as fifty years before the nukecaust, underground complexes were constructed under a program known as Continuity of Government, the ultimate insurance policy should Armageddon ever arrive. Many subterranean command posts were built, located in ten different regions of the country.

 

The most ambitious COG facility was code-named the Anthill because of its resemblance in layout to an ant colony. It was a vast complex, with underground sewage plants, railways, stores, theaters and even sports arenas.

 

Supplies of foodstuffs, weapons and anything of value were stockpiled, often times in triplicate.

 

Because of its size, the Anthill was built inside of Mount Rushmore, using tunneling and digging machines. The entire mountain was honeycombed with interconnected levels, passageways and chambers. The interior walls were reinforced with a special silicon foam, mixed with molten lead to provide shielding against radiation.

 

When the first bombs arrived on the twentieth of January, 2001, the Mount Rushmore facility had been in operation for some two months. At that time it was protected only by a skeleton force of soldiers. A group of scientists had taken up more or less permanent residence, sharing the complex with a few paranoid politicians and their families.

 

The world blew out on noon of that day, the safety measures kicked in, and everyone inside was safe and soundor so they thought.

 

Despite all their precautions, radiation and fallout storms still reached them. The Earthshaker bombs caused extensive damage to the Anthill.

 

Since they had no choice but to remain in the facility in order to survive, and, hopefully, one day govern again, it took them awhile to realize that they were just as much victims of the nukecaust as those whom they referred to as the "useless eaters" of the world.

 

When this select few, this powerful elite, did realize it, they were upset. It wasn't part of their program. They had assumed that after ten years or so of waiting safely inside the Anthill, all the world would be theirs to rule.

 

However, the nuclear winter changed their plans, as did slow death from rad poisoning. Even if they managed to outlast the big freeze , they couldn't cure radiation sickness. Their bodies, not their intellects, would eventually betray them to Father Death.

 

So they embarked on a radical and daring plan. Cybernetic technology had taken great leaps since the era of prosthetic limbs and artificial hearts, and that self-same technology existed inside Mount Rushmore.

 

Operations were performed on everyone living in the Anthill, making use of the advances in techniques in organ transplants and medical technology. The select few within the bosom of the mountain, over a period of several years, were turned into cyborgs, a hybridization of human and machine.

 

Of course, such transformations didn't solve all of their survival problems, nor were they intended to do so. Compensation for the natural aging process of some organs was very difficult to arrange. The Anthill inhabitants needed a supply of fresh organs, preferably the organs of people who had died young with their bodies in generally good condition. Because of the nukecaust, this supply was severely limited, so they came up with the next best solutioncryogenics, or a variation thereof.

 

The temperature inside the facility was lowered just enough to preserve the tissuesnot to such a low degree that the organs were damaged, but low enough to suspend the aging process. Combined with their cybernetic implants, the people in the Anthill achieved a kind of immortality. But they had only halted Father Death, not defeated him.

 

They had spent over a century in their little frigid world, looking out over the wasteland, prisoners of their own fantasies of power.

 

"That's the story," Hellstrom stated. "And who should know it better than I? All right, question-and-answer time."

 

"Who told you all of this?" J.B. asked suspiciously.

 

"The Beforetime pigs themselves oinked their tale to me, over a period of a few years. I filled in some of the gaps myself."

 

"So you're speculating," Mildred challenged.

 

"Surmising. As a freezie yourself, you should know what is possible."

 

"I do, and I'm more than just a freezie. I was a doctor of cryonics, and I know that for it to be effective the subjects have to be deep-frozen in liquid nitrogen at minus 196 degrees Celsius."

 

"They found a way around that," Hellstrom said.

 

"They, they," Jak said acidly. "Keep saying 'they.' Don't freezies have names?"

 

"Not as far as I've been able to learn. The only individual who has ever identified himself is a man calling himself the Commander."

 

"How many times have you been inside the Anthill?" Doc asked.

 

"None. All of my communications have been conducted through the beetles, which they use as surveillance and early-warning devices."

 

"How'd you arrange a trade agreement with them, then?" Ryan demanded.

 

Hellstrom tapped his temple with a forefinger. "A simple question of supply and demand. They demand certain products, and I supply them. I learned that from my father."

 

"Your father?" Krysty echoed.

 

"Baron Hustav Hellstrom. You and I are very much alike in background, Cawdor. Like you, I was the privileged son, the heir to a barony in the Northeast. When I was fifteen, it was wiped out by a combined army of muties and Forest People. I was one of the few survivors. I had received what used to be called a 'classical education,' and though I was exceptionally book-smart and knew the predark history of the Americas, I had little firsthand knowledge of how to survive Deathlands."

 

"It appears you managed," J.B. observed. "And very well, too."

 

"If you had met me only four years ago, you wouldn't have said that. For a long time I wandered and walked, learning the different cultures of the land, the local dialects, the topography, the varieties of flora and fauna. I walked and walked. I must've walked the entire length and breadth of Deathlands. The entire focus of my life was walking. That's why I hate to expend much energy on it now."

 

Fleur refilled his coffee cup and stood beside the chair, leaning a hip against it. She looked bored, industriously inspecting her nails.

 

Hellstrom took a sip of his coffee. "Where was I?"

 

"Making short story long," Jak said.

 

The white-clad man didn't appear to be offended, or, for that matter, to have even heard the young man's words. "I heard a lot about War Wag One and Two, about Trader and specifically about you, Cawdor. You appear to have a talent for insurrection. How many barons have you overthrown?"

 

"Only those who've needed it, Lars."

 

"I envied those barons, the lives they led, the people they controlled. I knew I could never reclaim my own birthright, but I knew I could establish my own barony, one so powerful that it could never be defeated. I was born to lead, to command, but there was one problem I had no followers."

 

Hellstrom leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and clasping the knee with both hands. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. "In my late teens, I discovered my latent psionic abilities. I found that I could sometimes sense what other people were thinking, and I assumed everyone had this ability. Eventually, of course, I learned otherwise. My power was undeveloped, truly a 'wild' talent. I found I could read some people all of the time, some part of the time, and some none of the time. I needed a method, a doctrine to employ, so I could zero in on those individuals my raw powers would influence. Then I remembered reading about Charles Manson."

 

"I remember reading about him, too," Mildred said bitterly. "He was a sociopathic loser, a manipulator of the spiritually weak."

 

Fleur made a growling sound deep in her throat. "That's heresy, you Beforetime bitch."

 

Hellstrom shushed her into glowering silence. "He was a very successful manipulator, nonetheless. He spun out an entire apocalyptic mythology, which now, in hindsight, seems to be a prophecy. I figured that if people bought his mixture of mysticism, ritual and paranoia a century ago, they'd buy it again, especially with a new spin put on it."

 

"And," Krysty interjected, "especially if your mind influenced them."

 

"Quite true. The more I used my psychic gift, the stronger it became, like strengthening a muscle. I began encountering people whose minds were vulnerable to my own. I not only could sense what they were thinking, I could project my own thoughts into their minds, and, in short, I controlled that mind on a modest scale. It's probable that Manson himself possessed and exercised this power to a very developed degree."

 

"But," J.B. pointed out, "you aren't a doomie."

 

"No," Hellstrom admitted. "My talent is of a different order. I interact with brain-wave patterns. Precognition and empathy operate on emotional states. For example, Ms. Wroth somehow intercepts the intent to cause harm, but she's not actually peeping into the future. Whereas I receive thought impressions, I'd guess that Ms. Wroth mentally picks up flashes of color, denoting emotions. Am I correct?"

 

Krysty nodded. "To some extent. The colors are very brief, almost subliminal. Orange for anger and red for murderous intent. If I hadn't been trained to interpret the bursts of color, I never would have realized what they meant."

 

"At first," Hellstrom continued, returning to the primary topic, "my followers were the walking wounded, the flotsam and jetsam, strictly the dregs of Deathlands. But as I continued my wanderings, I found followers, especially among the Farers and the bikers. Through them, the new Family managed to acquire a few decent blasters, but the life of nomads was wearing thin. It was too risky, especially after we drifted into this region. We lost several people to screamwings, and even more to the Indians. In fact, I rescued Fleur from the Indians during one skirmish, didn't I, Fleur?"

 

"Yes." She bit out the word, with no inflection or emotion attached to it.

 

"A little over three years ago, we arrived in this area, at the foot of Mount Rushmore. I'd heard about it in my youth and I wanted to see it. We had barely pitched camp when a band of Sioux came upon us. We managed to chill quite a few, but racked up some casualties ourselves. That night, while we were tending to our wounded, the Anthillthe Commander, in factmade contact with me, via a beetle. The people up there had observed our fight and they wanted a trade."

 

"What kind of trade?" Doc asked.

 

"They wanted the bodies of the newly dead. They wanted the undamaged organs. I began a dialogue with them that built into a relationship. I persuaded them to supply us with what we would need to build a community nearby, and we would serve both as their protectors and their providers. They gave us seeds so we could plant crops, for them and us, and in return for fresh bodies, they traded us the means by which to provide them with even more fresh bodies."

 

"Let me guess this one," Ryan said, disgust thick in his voice. "You didn't want to chill members of the Family since you were so few in number, so you viewed the local Indian tribes as mobile organ banks."

 

Hellstrom laughed. "That's essentially correct. However, it's not as stone-cold as it sounds. It was also a matter of self-preservation. The Sioux wanted us and the people of the Anthill out of this country by any means necessary. We would have been forced to chill them anyway, and at least their organs weren't just food for the worms."

 

"Why didn't you trade our livers to the Anthill?" Ryan asked. "As outlanders, we were fair game."

 

"That you were, and indeed that was my original intention. I changed my mind when Zadfrak pointed out how you could be of service to Helskel."

 

"Helskel's been around now for three years?" J.B. asked.

 

"A little less," Hellstrom answered. "As the word about us spreads and more people join us, I estimate we'll be the most powerful barony in the entire country in a few years. If, that is, we end our dependence upon the Anthill."

 

"You want to take it over," Ryan stated. "To have all the predark tech to yourself."

 

"Wouldn't you, in my circumstances? Wouldn't your beloved Trader plan the same thing?"

 

"He might plan it," J.B. said, "if he believed the payoff worth the risk. How can you get inside the place?"

 

Hellstrom shrugged. "Up through the nose is the most obvious and most risky way. But there's another entrance."

 

"How you know?" Jak asked.

 

Hellstrom reached behind him and rapped his knuckles on the armor plating of the AMAC. "This wouldn't fit through the nose. No, they have a sort of matter transfer device up there, and a receptor unit nearby. When I receive large merchandise from them, like this wag, I pick it up in a cave about two miles from here."

 

Interested despite himself, Ryan inquired, "Why can't you use the mat-trans unit to jump inside the mountain?"

 

"It's strictly one-way, evidently single point to single point. There are no controls on the unit, and it's guarded by beetles."

 

"How do they receive your goods?" Mildred asked.

 

"Simple. They lower a platform from the nose, and when it's loaded, they reel it back up again."

 

"If you covet their possessions so much," Krysty said, "is there some reason you haven't staged a raid yet?"

 

"The best reason in the world. It would fail, our trade agreement would end and I would be placing Helskel in terrible jeopardy."

 

"So why bring up in first place?" Jak demanded. "Are you just armchair general?"

 

"Not quite," Hellstrom said softly. "A general needs soldiers, and I have them. But for this operation to have even a fractional success margin, I need very special soldiers. For instance, soldiers that can't be traced back to Helskel or to me. Soldiers that aren't Family."

 

Realization rushed through Ryan like a fountain of cold water. He fixed his gaze on Hellstrom, who met it with a thin, mocking smile.

 

"Shit," Krysty declared, her spine stiffening. "I'm getting a flash of triple red."

 

Then one of the tripod-mounted security lights exploded in a blaze of blue sparks. A microsecond later, the sharp, snapping report of an automatic rifle split the night.

 

"Oh, my," Hellstrom said mildly. "I do believe the Indians are upon us."