Black Harvest. James Axler
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Des. It’ll be like you’re drinking, but you’ll never have the pleasure of feeling the water sliding down your throat.”
The baron moved forward, climbed up onto a step provided for him by a sec man, then jabbed the needle into a vein in the prisoner’s arm.
“No.” The word escaped the man like a sigh. There was fear in his voice. Real terror.
“Oh, yeah. I’m going to keep you alive as long as I can, just to hear you scream.” The baron moved in close to Des so there were just inches between their faces. “And when I get tired of that music, I’m going to add some junk to the bag, stuff I’m experimenting with that will eat away at your brain until there’s nothing left but goo.” He paused, savoring the moment. “Finally, when it’s more work than it’s worth to keep you around, I’m going to put a few crazed muties in this box with you and watch.”
“No!” Des screamed loudly.
“Ah, that got your attention, eh?” the baron said, climbing off the step. “Good. Think about those muties crawling all over your body, looking for junk.”
“No, no. I’m sorry…sorr-ee,” Des screamed, his voice echoing eerily off the walls of the box.
But the baron wasn’t listening anymore. He had turned his back on the prisoner and was on his way out of the box, followed by a half-dozen sec men.
When they were all outside, the sec men closed the steel doors in silence, all of them listening to the screams of a man who had just started down a very long and painful road toward his own death.
It gave them all something to think about, especially since Des used to be a sec man, just like them.
AT THE OTHER END of the ville, a door opened on a large steel box. From somewhere inside the box came a gnawing, high-pitched mechanical whine that rose in pitch, and then suddenly settled down into a staccato hum.
People outside the box turned to look in the direction of the sound.
And then all at once the sound lost its reverberation as a man atop a motorized, two-wheeled wag suddenly burst from the opening. The wag’s engine whined as the vehicle sent a plume of dirt and dust into the air behind it.
The gate to the ville opened slowly, and for a moment it appeared as if the man on the wag would crash into it, but by the time he reached the gate there was just enough space for him to slip through the opening.
The wag’s small engine rose in pitch again, screaming like an instrument of terror now as it raced toward the western horizon.
In seconds, the driver and wag were little more than a trail of dust in the distance.
The cry of the engine began to fade.
In minutes they were gone from view.
Chapter Four
Jak and Mildred were led down a long dark corridor that smelled—if Mildred remembered correctly—of disinfectant. That, of course, was impossible, since the manufacture of such things as disinfectant and household cleaners died with the nukecaust.
Still, she sniffed at the air and caught the unmistakable scent of pine.
“Smell good,” Jak said. “Clean.”
“I guess we won’t have to worry about conditions being sterile,” Mildred commented.
When they reached the end of the corridor, the sec man guiding them opened a door that led into a white room that was well lit by windows and portals cut into one of the walls.
“A healer has been sent for,” the sec man stated. “He should be here in a few ticks.”
Mildred nodded her thanks. She helped Jak up onto a wooden bed covered with linen and, when he was comfortable, she took a look around.
The room was small, but at first glance it appeared to be well stocked. Mildred made a closer inspection of the room and saw a variety of bottles and vials that were labeled with names of medicines and drugs she hadn’t seen, or even thought about in a long, long time.
There were bottles of cyanide, which she knew could be made from the seeds and pits of apricots, peaches, apples and wild cherries. Next to the cyanide were several vials of a whitish powder that Mildred guessed was arsenic trioxide. She turned one of the vials and read the label, proving herself right. Seeing the two poisons on the shelf gave Mildred a bad feeling, but further study revealed that this was a shelf storing nothing but poisons. There was another shelf in the room that appeared to be stocked with a variety of dried herbs that were often used for medicinal purposes.
She suddenly felt better about the setup.
The first one she picked up was dried echinacea, which was good taken internally against infections and externally for skin abrasions. Next to that were dried elder flowers, which were also good for skin ailments. Farther along were dried ginkgo leaves, good for a half dozen or so diseases, especially those to do with the mind. She continued down the shelf past Ginseng and Hops, Kava and Lemon Balm, St. John’s Wort and Valerian. These were all wonderful herbs and useful for the treatment of mild ailments, but none of them were strong enough to fight off an infection from a bullet wound.
Mildred looked for something stronger, and found it locked inside a cabinet in one corner. The doors to the cabinet were wooden framed panels of chicken wire. Just behind the wire she saw jars of dried hemp leaves, more commonly known during pre-Dark times as marijuana or cannabis, which could be used as a sedative or a postoperative painkiller. Next to the hemp were containers full of poppy seeds, which were an essential ingredient in the production of opium, as well as painkillers such as morphine and codeine.
These were more of the types of medicine Jak would be needing.
Behind the poppy seeds, Mildred saw several bowls filled with large green and yellow fungi, some of them excreting a yellowish fluid from the ridges and folds of their surface. If Mildred remembered her botany and biology correctly, penicillin was basically an antibiotic compound taken from molds of the genus Penicillium. If she was right, and she was sure she was, then she was probably looking at the medicine’s raw material.
“Seeds and leaves,” Jak said, lying back on the bed, exhausted.
“They may just be seeds and leaves to you, Jak, but to someone who knows what they’re doing, they can be made into powerful drugs.”
“Jolt and dreem?”
Mildred shook her head. “There’s no sign of that, but if the baron knows how to make good drugs like penicillin, then he can probably make the bad ones, too.”
“Not want drugs,” Jak said.
Mildred came over to his side and opened up the pressure bandage she’d put over his wound. “I think that’s wise, Jak, but you might not have a choice in the matter.”
“Make sure safe.”
“Don’t worry, my young friend,” Mildred said, patting Jak on his good shoulder. “I’ll look after you.”
Just then, the door to the room opened and a tiny older man dressed in a clean lab coat came into the room, moving to Jak’s side quickly. He had a thick mustache and thinning black hair combed over his hairless pate. “What’s the problem?” he asked, almost sounding irritated.
“He has a flesh wound that needs some attention,” Mildred answered for Jak.
“Playing with knives, eh?”
Jak looked at the man for a moment and wondered if he knew something about Jak’s talent with throwing knives. “Mutie shot me,” Jak said.
“Is that so?” The man unlocked the doors to the cabinet, then opened up the chicken-wire doors. After a moment’s consideration, he took out several containers and began mixing items on a shiny steel square that sat on top of the counter. “Being stupe outside the wall, were you?”
Mildred