Doom Helix (9 page)

A lot of what Big Mike said made sense, but no way would Ryan ever admit that to him. Not only was he certain that Big Mike would sell them out in a heartbeat to save his own stinking skin, but in a breakout attempt his 350 pounds would also be so much deadweight, at best rolling cover for them, a bullet sponge. Because of that, it was best to keep him in the dark on their escape plan, or the current lack of same.

Notwithstanding the comment about the companions’ value as laborers, Ryan knew there was a chance that Burning Man would cook them all for show, for crossing his land, or for something imaginary, and at the first opportunity. He had come across few barons who weren’t by nature murdering bastards.

It was also possible that Burning Man was a mutie with a grudge. In the Deathlands, those with visible mutations were not only excluded from all-norm villes, when caught they often got the short end of a rope, or the pointy end of a pitchfork.

That the whitefaces might not be norm had occurred
to Ryan, too. They seemed to be able to do things regular folks couldn’t, but in the absence of all the facts, he knew appearances could be deceiving. He saw nothing unusual about their heights or builds, which fell into the standard range—some taller, some shorter, some thinner, some heavier. Their features were hard to make out under the layer of paint and their thick braids concealed the backs of their necks, so an extra ear hole or nose hole or vestigial gills couldn’t be ruled out. But without hard evidence to the contrary, it was just as likely that their abilities were the result of centuries of passed-down experience and skills, and intimate knowledge of their home turf.

In the end, whether the whitefaces were muties or norms made no difference. Whatever the source of their advantage, they were in control of the situation.

By the time they reached the edge of the lava field an hour later, his eye had finally stopping weeping. The burning inside his nose and throat was gone as well. The whitefaces had held their distance and maintained their discipline, leaving no opportunity for escape. Ahead of them, the sea of black rock ended and beyond it was a swath of pale, fine dirt stretching all the way to the horizon line—the river’s ancient flood plain. At the distant join of sky and earth Ryan could see a thin band of green. Trees and scrub, he guessed, growing along the shore of the river. Maybe agricultural fields, too.

To their right, in the sea of beige dirt about one hundred yards distant, stood a corral. The standposts were made of bark-stripped, limber pine trunks, and they were strung with what looked like bailing wire. The whitefaces changed course, steering their prisoners toward the
ramshackle pen. Inside the corral, Ryan could see at least a dozen horses, chestnuts, pintos, all of them unsaddled. There was a water trough and a storage shanty with a rusting, corrugated steel roof.

The whitefaces brought the column to a halt at the corral fence. While the companions waited, their sweat dripping into the powdery dirt, Blocky Head led three of his warriors over to the shanty and disappeared inside.

“Ryan, we’re nuked,” J.B. said as they stared at the milling animals.

No argument, there.

With the whitefaces mounted on horseback, the prospect of the companions making a successful escape wasn’t just remote, it was nonexistent. Horses couldn’t be outrun, and blasters were no longer necessary to keep the prisoners under control. The big bodies and hooves would do that nicely.

“Three miles to river,” Jak said.

“I don’t see these bastards making a mistake between here and there, not on horseback,” J.B. said.

“And when we get to the river,” Ryan said, “we’re going to be even more outnumbered, mebbe separated and probably chained, necks and ankles.”

“What are we going to do?” Krysty said.

“We only have one option that I can see, and it isn’t good,” Ryan told her. “When we arrive at the river, if we get the chance, we’ve got to go for the highest value target—like J.B. suggested.”

“Only this time the target is Burning Man?” Mildred said.

“Nukin’ right!” J.B. said. “Separate the baron from the rest of his crew. Take him hostage, get some weapons,
then chill him and as many others as we can. We don’t want these bastards trailing us again.”

“But are you not overlooking one critical point?” Doc said. “How are we going to fight with our hands tied and our backs loaded down like this?”

“They might shift the packs to the horses,” Mildred said.

“But even if they don’t,” Ryan said, “they’re not going to roast us carrying all this ammo. It’s way too valuable, not to mention the danger of cook-offs. My guess is they’ll remove the packs when we get to the river. If they unload us one at a time, we wait until the last pack is off, then go for it. If they unload us all at once, follow my lead. Straight at him. Get control of him, no matter what.”

“And if we don’t get the chance?” Krysty said.

“Worse comes to worst,” Ryan said, “we’re just going to have to hunker down. We’ve done it before. Sit tight and wait for our opening.”

“If the whitefaces had all these horses,” Mildred said, “why didn’t they use them to go after Big Mike?”

“Lava triple hard on horses,” Jak said.

“You’re right,” Ryan said. “Treacherous footing, no trails, no water. Not to mention all the dust a dozen horses would raise, and the noise they’d make on the rocks. Whitefaces on horseback would be too far from the ground to follow tracks at night. They couldn’t ride. They’d have to walk the animals behind them, anyway.”

The whitefaces exited the shanty carrying bridles and reins. Blocky Head had a long coil of manila rope slung over his shoulder. Half his men held the companions at
blasterpoint while he used the rope to cinch the companions neck-to-neck, like shell beads on a string. Ryan was the first bead. The rest of the whitefaces entered the corral and started bridling all the horses.

That done, four of them grabbed Big Mike from behind and bum-rushed him through the corral’s gate. He thrashed and fought, trying to dig in his heels, but they hoisted him astride the bare back of a chestnut mare. He looked around, stunned.

He wasn’t the only one.

“Perfect,” J.B. snarled. “We walk and the lying sack of shit rides.”

“They probably don’t want to risk him dropping dead before they reach the river,” Mildred said.

“Mebbe he’ll fall off and break his neck,” J.B. said.

When the whitefaces mounted up, one of them had hold of the end of their tether. He walked his horse forward, jerking Ryan and the others along. It was clear the backpacks weren’t going to be shifted to the horses.

At a hand signal from Blocky Head, one of the whitefaces dug his heels into his horse’s flank and rode ahead at a gallop, toward the river.

Six horses behind the companions, six in front, they began to advance in the same direction as the rider. Blocky Head gripped the reins on Big Mike’s mount, leading the animal behind him. Walking on the soft dirt was much easier for Ryan and the others, but they had to move faster or be pulled off their feet. And they had to eat the dust kicked up by the horses in front of them.

Gradually, the tree line came into better focus. Ryan saw stunted scrub in patches amid cultivated fields. Beyond them, to the east across the flatland, was a
gridwork of ruined streets and buildings, a predark ville burned and gutted down to the foundation slabs. At what appeared to be the ville’s center, all that was left of a large, two-story structure was a disintegrating section of ornate, red-brick outer wall. The skeleton of a high water tower overlooked the destruction.

Ryan couldn’t see the river, but caught a glimpse of the far side of the bridge between the clumps of trees. It was a double span, white concrete blazing in the sun, as Big Mike had described. Then it was gone, hidden behind the line of scrub.

They walked the rutted borders of unfenced corn, beans, onions, tomatoes, peppers, all irrigated by a series of shallow ditches. From the size of crop, Ryan guessed the local population was a couple hundred people, at most. An insignificant number pre-nukeday, but a sizeable community by Deathlands standards. No one was working in the fields; the afternoon was too damn hot.

The track between the fields led to a ruined predark roadway. Blocky Head turned the column east on old 84 and followed the edge of the string-straight road-bed to the foot of the bridge. Like the highway, it had seen much better days. Some of the bridge supports were gone, eroded away, washed out or knocked out by debris. The upriver span had a fifteen-foot-wide gap in it, where the deck had collapsed into the current. The downriver span was intact—two lanes, with corroded steel guardrails on either side. In the middle of the bridge a crowd of people had gathered, no doubt alerted to the captives’ arrival by the rider Blocky Head had dispatched.

The whiteface warriors were welcomed home with
raucous cheers, whistles and a volley of gunshots fired into the air.

Blocky Head walked his horse onto the bridge, towing Big Mike and his steed after him. The whiteface holding the neck tether rode onto the span as well, pulling the row of captives forward.

From the foot of the bridge, Ryan could see white smoke curling up into the sky on the south side of the river, but any dwellings there were well out of sight. To his right, on the shoulder of the deck near the guard-rail, were a series of man-sized, blackened grease spots. Fragments of charred material were stuck to the surface of the concrete—what looked to be pieces of bone, as well as an empty boot and a dirty white sock.

“By the Three Kennedys,” Doc groaned, averting his face.

The overwhelming odor of cooked human flesh forced Ryan to breathe through his mouth.

Ahead, the crowd on the bridge pointed at the prisoners, catcalled, hooted and laughed. Men, women and children were all in whiteface. Whether the paint was ceremonial, dabbed on for the special occasion, or everyday wear, was impossible to tell. Some of the people wore denim bib-fronts like Big Mike; others had on holed-out shorts and T-shirts. All of the men carried longblasters. Most of them were well-worn, bolt-action hunting rifles, but there were a few remade AK-47s and M-16s mixed in.

The crowd parted before the advancing horses, moving to stand on either side of the bridge, and as they did, the boos and the shouts got even louder. The assembled whitefaces pelted Big Mike with small rocks
and gobs of spit. He hid behind his prosthesis, trying to protect his face.

The Snake River toll booth was made of piled-up old tractor wheels and tires, and wrecked wags, a crudely fortified emplacement that narrowed the bridge’s two lanes to less than one, and offered clear fields of fire that commanded the span in either direction. In front of the barrier a sunshade made from a brown plastic tarp was stretched between a rusting tractor’s engine cowl and the cab of an ancient water truck. Under the canopy, on a dais made of stacked wooden pallets, a lone figure lounged on a molded plastic chair, his unlaced combat boots propped up on a 100-quart cooler.

It had to be none other than Burning Man himself.

A flamethrower sat on the dais beside the cooler, close to hand. The weapon looked homemade. Ryan guessed the double, side-by-side steel tanks had once held compressed air. The flamethrower’s frame was made of crudely welded scrap metal and its padded, ballistic nylon shoulder straps had been stripped off a backpack. Six feet of armored hose connected the twin tanks to a nozzle assembly consisting of a two-foot length of pipe mounted with clamps onto a metal stock that featured a pair of pistol grips. Silver gauntlets and a matching hood lay on top of the tanks.

Upwind of the stench of carbonized human remains, Ryan caught a whiff of the pressurized wag fuel coming off the dais. Needless to say, there was no open flame anywhere near it. The block lettering on the side of the red truck’s tank was badly faded, but legible. It read: Volunteer Fire Dept., Rupert, Idaho. He wondered if the
water truck was there to put out the flames of innocent bystanders.

Ryan stole a quick glance behind them and saw that the mounted whitefaces had lined their horses shoulder-to-shoulder across the north end of the span, barring any retreat in that direction. They were trapped between the horses and the barricade. When he looked back, along both sides of the bridge, the crowd was beginning to move. As the women and children deserted the right-hand lane, all the men took positions along the left. Their weapons were aimed low, but held at the ready.

A firing squad waiting for orders.

In a matter of seconds, dozens of longblasters were lined up between them and Burning Man. No way could they hope to reach him before they were shot to pieces. Ryan moved closer to Krysty, shielding her from the blaster muzzles with his own body. As he did so, he peered over the bridge rail, into the river downstream. The channel below the span was very deep, the water green and sluggishly flowing.

Not only couldn’t they make a rush for the baron, they couldn’t escape via the river. Even if they managed to move as a unit, connected at the neck, and simultaneously jumped the rail without being hit, they couldn’t hope to wriggle out of the packs and ropes before they drowned.

The man on the dais called out, “Bring ’em closer!”

As the companions were yanked forward by the horseman, the whitefaced baron rose from his seat. A pair of dark-tinted goggles were perched on top of his head. Under them, his long, graying hair was parted in the middle and braided into twin plaits, which were
tied at the ends with strips of leather. His gray beard, braided into short pigtails and likewise tied, only grew on the left side of his face. The right side was completely hairless, no eyelashes, no eyebrows, and covered with a massive, disfiguring scar that ran from chin to forehead. The eyelid caught in the middle was mangled and drooping.

Layers of white paint, no matter how thickly applied, could not hide that half-melted face.

His NOMEX jumpsuit had once been silver; now most of it was blue black from grease stains and ground-in dirt. The suit was unzipped to the navel, and his bare chest bore patches of scar, like splatters of thick, pink candle wax.