Chapter Three

 

 

Writhing in the giant spider's grasp, Ryan swung the panga with all his strength. The leg holding him was as tough as he'd expected, but the keen eighteen-inch blade sheared through and freed him. Blood sprayed over him as the arachnid hunkered down in momentary shock and pain.

 

Ryan landed against the spider's head and immediately pushed off, sliding easily down the blood-slick hair. He dropped feet first into the sand, holding on to the panga tightly.

 

Wounded, the spider seemed to be having difficulty controlling its protective-coloring ability. It phased in and out of easy view. The natural colors appeared to be a very dark brown that looked black against the sand. The remaining legs dug deeply for purchase, then the body swung so that the creature could track Ryan with its beady black gaze.

 

Some of the feeling was returning to Ryan's left arm, stinging pain bringing with it a stiff mobility. He managed to reach down for the Steyr and scoop it up.

 

The spider swept another leg at him, creasing the sand more and more deeply as it approached.

 

Operating on razored instincts, Ryan leaped over the leg and brought up the Steyr. Holding the rifle in one hand, feeling the burn of the weight settle across his back and shoulders, he shoved the muzzle into the spider's face, penetrating one of the jet black eye bubbles. He squeezed the trigger as the hairs of another flailing leg missed his cheek. The rifle bucked.

 

The heavy 7.62 mm round rocketed through the spider's head, spewing a cloud of green ichor out behind it.

 

Ryan remained relentless as the spider tried to make its escape. He followed the creature, having to step high and stretch to keep the Steyr in place, and fired four more rounds before the arachnid was able to pull away.

 

The spider swayed drunkenly, trying to use the amputated limb as it retreated. A broken line of muties formed behind it, the ululant wails still keening sharply.

 

"Incoming!" J.B. warned.

 

Ryan withdrew quickly, aiming his headlong charge at the Armorer.

 

J.B. stood up from behind cover, a LAW rocket launcher settled comfortably over one narrow shoulder. His face was grim and sand encrusted under the fedora as he took aim.

 

Ryan tightened his grip on the panga and the Steyr. There was no way he was going to get entirely clear of the blast areaif the LAW even worked. They'd found it less than an hour ago, and J.B. hadn't had time to clean it.

 

The muties were already in motion. Some of them approached the spider, acting as if they wanted to help. The arachnid brushed them away like tenpins. The rest of the muties rushed at Ryan and J.B. with renewed fury.

 

The warhead leaped from the LAW with a distinctive whoosh. The trailing vapor burned orange and green, demonstrating that the chemical propellant wasn't perfect quality. But the explosive still fired when it impacted.

 

Ryan felt the heat wash across his back, deeper than the direct gaze of the desert sun, then the concussion flattened him in midstep. He went down, going with the force, then pushed himself back up again at once. A few more staggering steps, and he dropped into position beside J.B.

 

"Never chilled a god before," the Armorer said.

 

"Could of done this one a lot sooner," Ryan told his friend as he reloaded the Steyr.

 

The warhead wasn't as destructive as it might have been decades earlier. A smoky, burning husk of the giant spider remained, all seven legs curled inward in some kind of warped fetal position. Several of the muties were down around it, but at least eighteen were making their way toward Ryan and J.B.'s position.

 

"Hard to see the thing at first," the Armorer said. "You scored that hit, and it started to bleed, I couldn't miss." He dumped the rocket-launcher tube and whipped out the Uzi, burning through half a clip at the approaching muties. "You want to chastise me some more or run?"

 

"Run," Ryan replied. He gathered his weapons and led the sprint for the opening to the installation. Bullets landed around them, then spanged off the sides of the opening a few seconds later.

 

Ryan took a standing position at the side of the entry-way and started firing. His first bullet took a mutie in the throat, nearly decapitating him. The corpse fell to the ground and jerked spasmodically.

 

J.B. opened up at his side, and two more of the muties spilled to the ground in lifeless heaps. "We withdraw, they're going to follow us inside. Could be they know this place better than we do."

 

"Reckon you're right." Ryan had seen the bodies of muties in some of the corridors. "Holding up here's not going to be an option. And there's probably ways inside this place that we don't know about."

 

"Awful helpful, thinking about them coming up on us from the back," J.B. commented, and he fired another round burst that only cut the top off a dune but didn't touch the target that went diving away.

 

"I can stay here," J.B. offered. "Buy you some time to get the others back up here."

 

"Fuck that. We stand together, same as always."

 

The muties were massing, yelling at one another and putting their nerve to fever pitch.

 

"They're coming," Ryan said grimly.

 

"Never had a doubt of it," J.B. replied.

 

"You got anything else in that little pouch of nasty surprises you managed to salvage from this place?"

 

"Couple of grens. Might give them some pause." The Armorer took them out and passed one over.

 

Ryan cupped the gren gingerly and hooked a finger through the ring just as the muties broke cover and began their charge. "On my count."

 

J.B. nodded, his face set and impassive.

 

The muties were fifty yards out and closing.

 

"Three," Ryan counted down, "two"

 

Before he could go any further, he heard the sound of clanking machinery, joined by at least three blistering lines of heavy machine-gun fire.

 

The .50-caliber bullets chewed into the ranks of the muties without warning. They spun and twisted awkwardly as plate-sized gobbets of diseased flesh exploded from their bodies and flopped onto the dry sand, sending up little bursts of alkaline white dust.

 

"Dark night!" J.B. breathed.

 

Ryan flattened against the side of the opening but didn't release the gren. The withering machine-gun fire left nothing alive in the open areas, and chased a handful of survivors into hiding. The one-eyed man blinked to clear his vision. Wet strands of hair hung down into his face.

 

The growl and clank of machinery continued. A roil of sand tracked up one side of the dunes facing them.

 

"Wags," J.B. said.

 

Ryan nodded. There was no mistaking the sound. He'd lived with it for years while he'd been with the Trader.

 

An M-l Abrams Main Battle Tank clawed its way through the sand and perched on the edge of a dune less than a hundred yards away. The turret swiveled, the servomotors squealing in response, bringing the main gun to bear on the opening. An M-109 A-2155 mm self-propelled howitzer pulled into a flanking position on the left, followed immediately by two SEAL FAVsFast Attack Vehicles.

 

"Get the feeling we've stepped from the frying pan right into the fire?" J.B. asked.

 

"Yeah," Ryan replied. "How much plas ex do you have in that pack?"

 

"What do you have in mind?"

 

"Shutting this door." Ryan pocketed the gren. "If we have to." The thought didn't sit well with him. Many of the people he'd seen inside the installation had died while trapped in there.

 

"We could have a problem getting out of here later," J.B. commented.

 

"Mebbe. But if we try to cross that desert and these people don't want us to, we're going to catch the last train west anyway. I'd rather pick the time when I show up at the station if I got a choice."

 

"Right." The Armorer slung the Uzi and dropped his pack, rummaging through it.

 

The war wag's PA system crackled to life. "Attention. This is Major Drake Burroughs of the United States Army. Throw down your weapons and come out of the building."

 

Ryan glanced at J.B.

 

"You heard him right," the Armorer said, pushing his glasses up his blade of a nose with a grimy forefinger. "Stupe thinks he's still part of the U.S. military."

 

"Give yourselves up," the major shouted, "and you won't be harmed."

 

"I'm going to buy us some time," Ryan said.

 

Before the Armorer could attempt to talk him out of it, he stepped into the glare of the sun. He cupped his other hand and shouted back. "I'd rather talk first."

 

At first there was no reply, then the words rolled like thunder. "You're in no position to negotiate."

 

Ryan grinned, knowing the wolf's smile would be picked up by others among the unit who were using binoculars. A show of confidence didn't hurt, especially when there wasn't anything to be confident about. "If I wasn't, you wouldn't have opened the ball on this conversation."

 

Burroughs didn't hesitate long before deciding. A man pulled himself through the hatch of the Abrams war wag and waved another out of the passenger seat of one of the fast-attack vehicles. The buggy roared forward on its fat tires, spinning out tails of sand behind it. As it neared, Ryan saw the 12.7 mm machine gun mounted on top of it.

 

The wag stopped thirty yards away, its nose pointed in silent challenge at Ryan like a feral animal. The machine gunner's attention never wavered.

 

The man in the passenger seat got out and walked toward Ryan. He was nearly six and a half feet tall, packaged tight and neat, broad at the shoulder. His uniform was black, contrasting sharply with the platinum white of his short-cropped hair. His face was seamed, tanned and leathery, the eyes and crow's feet covered by dark aviator sunglasses. Ryan guessed his age at forty, perhaps a few years older. He carried a .45 Colt Government Model in a counterterrorist drop holster on his right thigh, and another in shoulder leather was attached to his combat webbing. Kevlar body armor was apparent under the webbing. An American flag was plastered against his upper left shoulder, but its looseness suggested that it was removable.

 

Burroughs stopped ten feet away and pinned Ryan with his gaze. "Sergeant," he bellowed without looking away.

 

"Sir," the machine gunner responded.

 

"I should know this man."

 

"Sir, you do. Ryan Cawdor. He's in our files."

 

Burroughs nodded. "One eyed. General description. I thought so. We didn't have a picture of this man before."

 

"No, sir. Already been remedied."

 

"You used to ride with the Trader," Burroughs said to Ryan. "Son of a baron along the East Coast or something, if I remember correctly."

 

Ryan returned the level gaze full measure. "You're the man with all the answers."

 

Burroughs didn't reply.

 

"Got one question for you, though." Ryan kept his voice loud enough so that only J.B. and Burroughs could hear. "You given any thought to how you're going to get back to that wag before me or one of mine put a bullet through your head?"

 

 

 

MILDRED RAN, trying to follow Jak in the darkness. The albino teen had dropped his torch, as well. Her hip bumped painfully against a workstation, sending a computer crashing to the floor.

 

The computer shattered when it struck the hard surface. White-hot sparks of electricity peppered the darkness. Bullets cut through her former position, striking the metallic shells of other computers and the tables in rapid succession. Some of them were purple tracers, flashing by in a blur.

 

A hand plucked at Mildred's sleeve. She whirled, bringing up the .38.

 

"Me," Jak said in a harsh whisper. "Find door. Follow."

 

"I can't see a thing."

 

"Follow wind, then." Jak kept pulling at her, not hesitating in the slightest.

 

"Where are they, dammit?" a voice bellowed above them.

 

"I'm tracking them," another man answered. "Goddamn thermal imager's all fucked up from the torches they were carrying."

 

Mildred's mind was screaming at her, demanding to know who the people were who were trying to kill them, and where they'd come from. She was certain they hadn't entered through the door she and Jak had used. She kept the questions to herself, following Jak's lead as best she could. Now that her senses were searching for it, she could feel the breeze moving through the room.

 

"Down," Jak urged, tugging her into position beside an overturned computer table.

 

The gunfire around them had almost abated, but was replaced by the noise of men hurrying, shoving through furniture with careless abandon behind them. Mildred hunkered down as Jak had requested, knowing the albino teenager would stick and wouldn't leave her there. She blinked her eyes rapidly, willing her night vision to register.

 

Flashlights, honest-to-God hand-held units that had to run off battery power, threw beams across the interior of the computer center. Mildred marveled at their presence. Only a few years ago by her personal clock, things like batteries were taken for granted, necessary nuisances available in every convenience store. In the Deathlands, though, they were seldom seen. For someone to be using them so readily meant their pursuers had a stockpile of them or had the technology to construct their own.

 

Neither theory left her feeling comfortable.

 

"Split up," the first voice commanded. "Two-man units. Don't try to apprehend them yourselves. Call for backup."

 

The orders and the man's tone indicated a military or law-enforcement background that Mildred was familiar with from her previous life.

 

"We don't find and neutralize these bastards, Burroughs is going to have our asses in a sling."

 

Mildred recognized the name from the journal entries. A flashlight beam whipped over the table above her and drove her further into hiding. Perspiration dripped down her face, soaking into the collar at her neck. For just a moment it highlighted Jak as he stole up behind a man closing on Mildred's position. His face was grim and unforgiving, and he held one of his leaf-bladed knives in a fist.

 

"Clancy!" a man yelled from the direction the flashlight had come. The light tracked back.

 

This time the view was of the man dumbly looking down at the gouts of blood staining his uniform blouse from his slashed throat. Jak was already in motion.

 

"There, goddammit! Somebody take that fucker out!"

 

Mildred stood up from the table, the Czech pistol in a two-handed grip. As soon as the blade along the barrel leveled with her target, she snapped off three rounds.

 

The spread among all of them would have fit on a playing card. The flashlight that had been targeting Jak winked out of existence, followed by a bout of cursing that came deep from the soul.

 

"The bastards took out Eggleton," someone yelled.

 

Mildred took a step in the direction of the breeze and locked on to another flashlight. She fired three more rounds, then kept moving, guided by Jak's hand on her shoulder.

 

"Door at ten feet to left. Move. They're closing in."

 

Mildred ran, knowing from the firing lines that the group they were facing had already sectioned off the room and had nearly pinned down their location. Jak was a dark wraith ahead of her, barely visible against the sudden rectangle of the doorway they'd entered through.

 

"Damn it! They're making for the door! Cease fire! Ceasefire!"

 

Lungs burning, trying to feed the need for oxygen that her system demanded, Mildred threw herself through the door just as a rifle bullet sailed above her head. She rolled, listening to the rapid beat of approaching footsteps. She pushed herself up, raising the ZKR in front of her.

 

At the side of the door, Jak hammered a fist into a control panel. "Got power. Shut door. Lock 'em in."

 

With a ratcheting grate, the steel door recessed overhead started to drop with a jerk. A plume of rust-colored dust billowed up when it slammed against the flooring hard enough to vibrate through the steel panels.

 

Mildred paused long enough to pick up a rusted screwdriver from the debris scattered across the floor. She rammed it into the electronic panel Jak had used to seal the door. Wiring flared and soldered itself, shorting out the circuits. Electric current, almost forceful enough to burn her skin, hit her hand before she could jerk it back. The tool held enough metal to burn cherry red from the electricity. She felt confident there'd be no further pursuit from that quarter.

 

Mildred heard the gunfire then, distant cracks that sounded thin. She knew at once that she and Jak weren't the only ones who'd been attacked.