Shatter Zone. James Axler
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the skin…
Moving with glacial speed, the wrinklie moved away from the needle until he was clear. Then he stood perfectly still for a few minutes, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Idiot! Fools always die, that was rule number one. Stay alert, stay alive.
Taking a small fruit from the bag, Patches allowed himself a tiny bite as a reward. The juicy pulp was as sweet as canned peaches, but with none of the metallic aftertaste. Licking his cracked lips clean, Patches tucked the fruit away and began his slow creep toward the edge of the grove and his waiting wife. There was no fast exit from among the plants, so he might as well gather as much food as possible along the way.
Patiently, slowly, the one-eyed wrinklie worked his way through the grove of death, gathering the tiny harvest of life.
WITH THE RED DUST WIND blowing around him, the outlander stood on top of the rocky hill watching the four horsemen of the apocalypse ride along the horizon. Delphi almost smiled at the literary reference. Then he did smile at the idea that he was probably the only person in ten thousand miles who did know the allusion.
Except for Tanner, Delphi added, the smile quickly fading. Professor Theophilus Algernon Tanner. “Doc” to his friends. Experimental test subject No. 14 to his former captors.
High above the lone man, the polluted clouds in the fiery sky roiled and rumbled with endless thunder, the sheets of heat lighting cutting across the orange clouds like an executioner’s ax, bright and sudden, then gone, leaving nothing behind.
Formerly a lush woodlands, this section of the wasteland was now only a barren desert of hard rock and windblown sand. However, in the secluded valley below this hill there was a small forest of succulent cacti. Two old people were living in a rusted courier service truck that hard-crashed at one time, and seemed to have learned how to safely harvest the edible fruit growing on the deadly cactus.
Reaching into a pocket, Delphi pulled out a cigarette and tapped the end on the back of his hand. A moment later the tip glowed red and he drew the thick sweet smoke deep into his artificial lungs.
It was a good location, Delphi admitted. The rad pits were few and far between, plus there was even a small creek of clean water trickling from a rent in the side of a nearby mesa. In comparison to the rest of the shattered world, this was almost an Eden, a lost paradise. Such a pity that somebody else wanted it, too.
Allowing the pungent smoke to trickle out of his nostrils, Delphi tilted his head at the sound of singing coming from the old woman skinning a fat Gila monster. Singing. Now that was a very rare sound these days. Or rather, happy singing was uncommon. The cannies often cut their victims in special ways to make the people scream in what they called death songs. But Delphi didn’t approve of cannibals, and killed them on sight, despite the standing orders from his superiors at TITAN to never hurt a gene-pure norm. Orders were orders, yes, but there were limits to his tolerance. And to his grudging obedience.
Briefly he wondered if the people in charge of TITAN even knew that Department Coldfire existed. Wheels within wheels. A secret wrapped in a mystery, a conundrum lost in the fog, and everything cloaked in total denial. As far as Delphi knew, only about a dozen people in the world had ever known what his department was trying to accomplish—nine of them were operatives, and one was a test subject who had gotten away. Doc Tanner. But if all went well…
A movement on the horizon caught his attention and Delphi turned to focus his silvery eyes on the four horsemen galloping along the desert at full speed. Their bodies were bent low over their animals as they whipped the beasts on to greater speed.
So they understood wind resistance. Good. They aren’t as stupid as they look, Delphi thought.
The four men rode without saddles or bridles, using only blankets and ropes. Although they were heavily armed, no sunlight glinted off the weapons in their hands, the ax blades and one blaster were wrapped in cloth to prevent any reflection that might reveal their presence too soon.
That was also good, Delphi admitted, removing the cigarette to exhale slowly. They were smart, but cautious. And the four moved well, working together as a unit. Excellent.
Hopefully these four coldhearts would be the end of his search. The previous thirteen groups Delphi had tested all proved to be useless. They were always too eager, too bloodthirsty or too stupid. Delphi needed operatives who could be trusted. Soldiers to be where he could not be, and to do what he was not allowed to do. Although perhaps the more colorful term of mercenary was more accurate for their job description, though “mercie” was the current term. From mercenary to mercy, what a misnomer! The irony was delicious.
Suddenly a blaster shot rang out and Delphi saw the old woman fall to the ground, blood pouring from her shoulder. All four horsemen began to whoop a war cry as the rest fired their crossbows. The flight of arrows missed the woman as she stumbled into the truck, the shafts stabbing into the loose sand all around her.
Crossing his arms, Delphi frowned. Was she seeking refuge?
Then the woman reappeared with her own crossbow and fired. The arrow just missed the lead rider and struck the second horse just below a shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, nothing of importance. But the animal abruptly slowed and began to shake all over, foam dripping from its mouth. The convulsing horse stumbled, throwing its rider. The big man with a bald head hit the ground hard but came up rolling, completely undamaged. But minus his crossbow. With an expression of incredible fury, he reared up, brandishing a steel knife.
As the coldheart charged straight for the wrinklie, she struggled to reload the crossbow. But by now the others had arrived. Swinging their weps like clubs, they rode past the woman, knocking the crossbow from her hands and smashing her about the face.
Giving a startled cry, the woman dropped to the ground. The big man with the knife descended upon her and started to hack wildly. Blood sprayed at every stroke. Trapped beneath the coldheart, the struggling wrinklie began to shriek once more, then went completely still.
Circling the box canyon, the three riders joined their companion. Stepping away from his grisly work, the big man gave a cruel laugh, then lifted up the patched skirt of the aced wrinklie.
Horrified, Delphi furrowed his brow. Surely they weren’t going to rape the corpse!
Laughing, the man used the skirt to clean his gory knife, while the three riders trotted over to the fallen horse. The Appaloosa-colored mare lay motionless on the hot sand, its eyes wide in terror, foam flecking the black lips. There was no doubt that it was chilled. Turning away from the sight, the man with the knife spit on the aced wrinklie.
Just then, a spotted dog jumped out from the cab of the truck and raced toward him, moving incredibly fast on just three stubby legs. Crying out in surprise, the man dived out of the way. But the dog ignored him to stop alongside the corpse of its still master. The animal gave a little bark, as if waiting for a reply, then raised its massive head and snarled in bestial rage, baring sharp white teeth.
But the pause had been a mistake, and the riders feathered the dog with arrows. Mortally wounded, the bleeding animal limped toward the first man, yipping and barking. With his back to the grove of cactus plants, the man reached for his knife, but found the sheath empty. Lunging forward, the coldheart grabbed the dog by the throat and throttled it with his bare hands. The dying animal fought to the end, snapping its jaws and clawing for the hated enemy with its three stubby legs. But it couldn’t reach the man, and eventually the dog eased its attack to go limp. With a guttural curse, the man tossed the corpse away and went looking for his dropped knife.
From his hilltop refuge, Delphi watched as the three men dismounted from their horses to spread out and recover the used arrows. Armed once more, the tall man with the bald head stood guard while the others looted the interior of the truck. Apparently there wasn’t much of interest inside, but the four men shared the collection equally. One of them found a bag full of dried meat and started to take a bite when the smaller man with a ponytail shouted a warning and slapped it to the ground. As the others listened, he spoke harshly to them, and used a dirty handkerchief to retrieve the dropped jerky and put it back in the bag.
So that one knew about