Shatter Zone. James Axler
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somber men was a beautiful redheaded woman leaning against the brick wall of the passageway, her left arm moving steadily as she brushed her teeth. The long hair hanging to her shoulders flexed and stirred against the direction of the breeze coming from the redoubt as if the crimson filaments were endowed with an independent life force of their own.
“Think we’re still in Deathlands?” Krysty Wroth asked, once again dipping the toothbrush into an open box of baking soda.
Her cowboy boots shone with polish. She’d traded in her jumpsuit for denim pants and a crisp white shirt, found sealed in a plastic box. Around her waist was a police gunbelt supporting a .38 revolver, a deadly compact blaster that had seen many battles. But very few of the ammunition loops of the gunbelt held any live brass, mostly they were filled with spent cartridges waiting to be reloaded.
“Nuking hell, we could be anyplace,” Ryan answered gruffly. “No way of telling through this drek.” He paused at a peal of thunder, then added, “But it doesn’t resemble any area I’ve been to before.”
Folding back his collar, J.B. touched the minisextant hanging on a chain around his neck. “And without a clear view of the sun, there’s no way for me to get a reading. We might be in Europe or Brazil for all I know.”
“That memo we found on the trash bin mentioned the Virgin Islands,” Ryan reminded him, glancing sideways.
J.B. shrugged. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean this is them. Mebbe the guy was planning on going there when the world ended.”
With a dissatisfied grunt, Krysty went back to scrubbing her molars. Thankfully, the pain wasn’t too bad today. She had the beginning of a major cavity, and was fighting off the day when it would be necessary for Mildred to use pliers and yank the rotten tooth out by the roots.
How odd, death I can face, Krysty thought privately as she scrubbed diligently away. But not pain. Have I experienced so much that I am getting weak? Mother Gaia, help me, if that ever happens!
Suddenly the sound of boots rang on the concrete behind them, and the three companions turned to see a stocky black woman walk out of the redoubt.
“Aw, hell, still raining,” Mildred Wyeth said angrily, contorting her face into a dark scowl. “Damn it, we’re never going to get a sample of those trees!”
The short physician was dressed in Army fatigue pants, an officer’s white shirt and a loose denim jacket. Clipped to the front of her canvas web belt was a Czech ZKR target pistol, and draped over her shoulder was a canvas bag with the faded letters M*A*S*H on the side. The predark field surgery kit had never left her possession since she’d recently found it. The medicine was long gone, but the few surgical instruments it contained were beyond price.
“Nobody’s going anywhere, Millie,” J.B. said kindly, curling an arm around the woman’s waist. “Sorry.”
Mildred moved a little closer to the Armorer, savoring the warmth coming off the man. “Who would have thought it ever possible,” she muttered, squinting into the storm. “Plants, living green plants immune to the acid rain!”
“Some new mutation, probably,” Krysty said, tucking the toothbrush and box of baking soda into a pocket of her bearskin coat. “Not every mutie wants to eat people.”
“Just most of them.” J.B. snorted in droll humor.
“Mebbe these plants feed off the rain,” Ryan said unexpectedly, his brow furrowed. “We know for a fact that the predark whitecoats were working on making things that could survive skydark.”
The companions grew silent at that comment. They had encountered the experiments of the crazy whitecoats before, the bioweps, genetically altered creatures that could withstand certain hostile conditions, some even surviving the deadly rads in the blast craters.
“If only I could get a sample…” Mildred muttered, easing away from her lover.
For a moment there flashed in her mind the legend of Johnny Appleseed from the eighteenth century, how he traveled across North America scattering apple seeds and creating entire forests of fruit trees, changing grasslands into beautiful forests. She could do that with just a few cuttings from the strange plants out there. Mildred would just have to plant a few sprigs everywhere the companions went. Oh, she would never see the final results, but someday, in a hundred years, the continent could be green again. Deserts turned into forests. It would work! The Deathlands could be defeated! If only…
Lost in her reverie, Mildred started forward when a gust of wind from outside washed along the access tunnel and she flinched at the sharp stink of the rain. If only we had an APC, she thought. But would even an armored personnel carrier, or a U.S. Army tank be safe in this downpour? Probably not.
“They are as unreachable as the stars, madam,” Doc Tanner rumbled, his voice sounding deeper than the thunder.
The four companions turned to see their other friends amble through the open doorway of the redoubt. With nobody standing in the way anymore, the multiton door slid closed, the titanic slab of metal easing into the adamantine wall as silent as a knife in a dream.
Tall and lean, Doc Tanner was dressed as if from another century with a swallowtail jacket and frilly shirt. But the impression of gentility was beguiled by the strictly utilitarian .455 LeMat handcannon on his gunbelt, the grip of the massive black-powder weapon worn from constant use. Tucked under one arm, Doc carried an ebony walking stick with a silver lion’s head for a handle. Hidden inside was a rapier of the finest Toledo steel.
“NASA has sent probes to the stars, you old coot,” Mildred snapped irritably.
“Indeed, madam, so you say,” Doc continued unabated. “But they brought nothing useful back that we know about, and so shall it be again this time, I am afraid. We can look, but not touch.”
“Just like in vid,” Jak Lauren stated, brushing back his snowy-white hair. The albino teenager was wearing camou-color clothing. His jacket was a deadly weapon, as bits of razor-sharp metal had been sewn into the fabric here and there. If anyone grabbed him by the collar, the person would lose fingers. A number of leaf-bladed throwing knives were hidden about his person, and a massive .357 Magnum Colt Python was holstered at his side.
“What vid was that?” Ryan asked over a shoulder.
Jak shrugged. “Dean and I saw in another redoubt. Victory for Victoria, mebbe. Skinny man standing in snow look through window at fat baron in a gaudy house stuffing self with food.” The teenager frowned. “Not follow story after that. Boring, but only vid that still played on comp.”
“Victor/Victoria,” Mildred corrected him with a wan smile. “Yes, I wouldn’t think that a musical comedy would be to your liking.”
Jak arched an eyebrow. “Why say? Like music vids. Always lots of food, pretty girls.”
“And that, my young friend, is as good a description of paradise as any in these draconian days.” Doc sighed. Slipping the walking stick out from under his arm, Doc strode to the very end of the tunnel, stopping only a few feet away from the damp spot on the floor where the rain had been blown inside.
“Most people, I believe, shall never see, a poem as lovely as… What was that line?” Doc whispered softly, then spun fast. “Ryan, we simply must have those trees! Surely something can be done. That city cannot be more than a league away. Maybe less.”
A league? “We wouldn’t last ten feet in that,” Ryan stated gruffly, hitching up his gunbelt. As the lightning flashed once more, the big man turned his back on the storm. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time. Let’s go.”
“But…”
“Cut the gab,” Ryan snapped impatiently. “We agreed to wait a day for the storm to end. Well, it’s still here and the day is gone. Time to go. You zero that?”
“Yes, my friend, I understand,” Doc rumbled in acquiescence. “It has, indeed, been a full day, and fair is fair.”
Going