Eden’s Twilight (25 page)

“How soon till you're mobile again?” Krysty asked, keeping a careful watch on the lake for any additional moving islands.

“Don't know if the wag will ever roll again,” Roberto said truthfully. “But Scott and the
Big Joe
will be here once they get the bridge built.” He frowned. “However, by then Pete might've already destroyed Cascade. So…here.” He thrust out something at Ryan.

Without comment, the one-eyed man took the leather-bound journal and tucked it into his gunbelt. He didn't have to ask if the big man had made a duplicate. No trader worth his brass would ever rely upon a single map.

“Quinn is hauling over some belts for your Fifty,” Roberto said. “As well as replacement rockets for the two you launched.” Then reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a gren. “And you might need this, too.”

Slightly confused, Ryan wondered if the gren was some
thing special to the trader, then he saw the markings. “Son of a bitch,” the man muttered in surprise. “An implo gren! I haven't seen one of those in a long while.”

“It should be enough to take out those steam trucks,” Roberto stated with marked satisfaction.

“Steam trucks? Dark night, that will compact an army tank down to the size of a soup can!” J.B. exclaimed, reaching out to reverently take the ferruled sphere. It lay lightly in his palm, giving no indication of the staggering destructive power that was harnessed within the high-tech piece of ordnance. He should have suspected that the trader would have something like this tucked away. If you lived inside a steel can, it only made sense to have a can opener available in case of trouble. That gave the man pause, and J.B. made a mental note to keep a sharp watch out for whatever Pete had stashed away for an emergency inside the
Road Dragon.

“You will never know how close I came to using it on the kraken,” Roberto said softly. “And there's a price.”

“Pete,” Ryan said without prompting.

“No,” came the astounding reply. “Cascade. Protect them at all costs. We can handle Pete, and Yates, too, for that matter.” Roberto pointed at the companions. “You folks save Cascade.”

“Done and done,” Ryan said with a nod.

Just then a dull boom sounded in the distance.

Instantly everybody pulled blasters and looked around for danger, but only the two wags were visible on the shore of the vast mud lake.

With a hydraulic sigh, a door to War Wag One swung down and out walked Eric, his face a mask of consternation. Like most techs, he wore a vest covered with tiny pockets full of tools, but there was also a big-bore .44 Webley handcannon at his side.

“What's wrong?” Roberto demanded, the sawed-off blaster still in his grip.

“Chief…” Eric paused and changed his demeanor. “Sir, we
have received a coded message from Scott Gordon of the
Big Joe,
” the man reported formally, then swallowed hard. “They have been ambushed and…and they…”

“And they did a sixteen,” Roberto said, slowly holstering his piece.

“Y-yes, sir. They did.”

Jessica closed her eyes.

“If I may ask, what has happened?” Doc said in his most gentle voice.

“It's not always possible to get a full message through the radio,” Roberto said tightly, “so we use a number code. Nine means this, nineteen means something else. Saves a lot of time and trouble.”

“Never heard of that before,” Ryan admitted.

Jessica frowned. “You don't know half of our secrets, newbie.”

“And what does sixteen mean?” Krysty asked, although she already knew the answer from their dark expressions.

Rubbing his sore leg, Roberto turned away and started toward the wag. “It means Scott was ambushed, the
Big Joe
disabled,” the big man said over a shoulder. “And rather than be taken alive to be tortured for information…or worse…they…”

“Blew up the wag while still on board,” Mildred finished for the man.

“Traders and crew don't go into chains,” Jessica stated proudly, holding her head high. “We live free, or die.”

Several of the crewmen in the crowd repeated the phrase as if it was a holy mantra, and one of the women fought back tears.

“Live free or die,” Ryan said in agreement.

“Pax vobiscum,”
Doc added solemnly in Latin.

Stiffly climbing onto the stairs set into the metal door, Roberto rested a hand on the armored hull of War Wag One as if drawing strength from the massive machine. “Well, what
the fuck are you gleebs waiting for, the summer solstice?” the trader bellowed, not looking in their direction. “Get that fragging piece of drek moving! We've…got repairs to do.”

Knowing anything they could say would be pointless, the companions silently returned to the urban combat vehicle and got the mud-splattered wag rolling, no longer quite so sure of the success of the long journey ahead of them.

Gradually, the muddy shoreline changed into flat grasslands, and then a scraggly forest of pine trees. Once the mud lake and War Wag One were out of sight, the companions stopped in a small gully and held a fast war council. First and foremost, they decided that for the rest of this trip, their name code was to be reversed;
Charlie
no longer meant that it was clear, but “chill me.”
Able
did not mean an ambush, but that it was “all clear,” and so on. Ryan and the others liked the gruff trader and trusted him more than most people, but these were unusual circumstances, so they needed to be especially wary.

Next, they got busy with knives and rope, trimming off branches and attaching them to the UCV until it was thickly covered. The windshield and tires were still exposed out of necessity, but from a distance the parked vehicle would hopefully appear to be only a pile of fallen branches and not an armored war wag.

With Doc and Jak standing guard, Ryan and Krysty put the finishing touches on the camouflage. Walking into the dull sunlight, J.B. pulled out his minisextant and watched the clouds overhead until there was a brief break in the cover. He quickly shot the sun to get their exact position. Jotting down the figures, he consulted the journal and then the battered old map he carried tucked inside his munitions bag. Hmm, they were currently in…West Virginia. Yeah, the man had kind of assumed that from the sheer size of the mountains. At the moment, the UCV was parked in what had once been the small town of Buena Vista.

“How's it coming?” Ryan asked, washing the sticky pine sap off his hands with a rag dipped in fuel.

“Okay, I have plotted us a course parallel to the way described in the journal,” J.B. said, tucking a pencil behind his ear. “We'll have a rougher ride in these damn hills. West Virginians must have been part mountain goat even before skydark, but with luck we might just slip right past Pete without him even knowing we're here.”

“Sounds good,” Ryan said, tossing away the rag, then cleaning his skin with a moist towelette from an MRE food pack. The one-eyed man had once seen a green sec man trigger a blaster with gasoline on his hands. The resulting explosion of flames and flesh was not something Ryan would ever forget, or risk happening to himself.

“How can you be sure?” Mildred asked.

“Easy. Most of this region is exactly the same on the map,” the Armorer replied. “I don't think any nukes fell around here. Just a lot of tumbledown and acid rain.”

“Plus, the winter.”

“Yeah, the long dark night. That must have been a triple bitch to live through.”

“Did you find Cascade?” Ryan asked, looking over the predark map.

“No, there's nothing here with that name, or even anything close,” J.B. replied testily, folding the map before tucking it safely away once more. “And that kind of worries me some. If the locals changed the name of the place, then they're trying to hide their location.”

“But then why send out folks to contact traders?” Jak asked suspiciously.

“Only one way to find out,” Ryan said, drying his hands on his shirt. “Let's go ask them.”

Dragging some branches behind the wag to try to erase their tire tracks, the companions started across the pine barrens to eventually reach a proper forest of dogwood, weeping
willows and huge oak trees, the branches so intertwined the dim sunlight could only dapple the rocky ground, the tiny streams of light creating the classic cathedral effect.

Trying to keep out of sight, Ryan stayed amid the trees whenever possible. Occasionally he would find the rutted remains of an old logging road, but every time, it became clogged with poplar trees, which was suspicious to say the least. The only plant that grew faster than poplar was bamboo, and it almost seemed as if somebody had deliberately planted the trees to seal off the steep mountain trails.

Fording a river, Ryan was not worried when the currents rose high around the UCV, cresting the windows until the companions could actually see fish swimming by underwater. Vastly amused, Mildred felt like a kid at an aquarium again, watching the schools of trout and colorful minnows darting about the waving strands of kelp, broken chunks of concrete and the oddly shiny remains of supermarket shopping carts.

As the wag trundled out of the river, Ryan drove it into the deep woods, following bear paths and dried creeks whenever possible. When not, he simply plowed through the bushes and thickets, hoping the wag was not making so much noise that they would get noticed. This was to be a nightcreep in broad daylight, and everything seemed to be against them.

The land steadily became steeper, the rocks soon becoming boulders larger than the UCV. Several times, the companions had to use the winch to clear away fallen trees, and then once to haul the vehicle itself up a rocky slope to reach a section of paved roadway that otherwise would have been impossible to achieve.

Now making excellent time, the companions drove on through the day and into the night, using only the bright moonlight to follow the snaking roadway. It was around midnight when Jak cried out and pointed to their left. Down at the bottom of the valley, the headlights of a motorized convoy
were moving through the darkness, and they faintly heard the prolonged whistle of a steam engine releasing excess pressure.

“Steam trucks. Bigger than hell, but slower than drek,” J.B. said from behind the wheel. “Oh, they got some good points, but I prefer a nice, quiet diesel better.”

“Quiet?” Mildred asked, then she relented. “Well, relatively so, I guess. At least they're less noisy than a damn locomotive!”

“Better keep a sharp watch for scouts and outriders,” Ryan warned. “Pete's not a fool.”

“More's the pity,” Doc rejoined, running a whetstone along the edge of his Spanish sword.

Continuing onward, J.B. stopped around dawn to give the wheel to Doc, who then exchanged seats with Mildred at noon. The companions took a short break after lunch to use the bushes, then to refuel the wag with the last of the spare juice. Moments later, they were on the move, continuing straight on through the day, piling on the miles.

Night had fallen again when Ryan got behind the wheel again. The UCV went around a curve in the old road and a wide valley came into view. Bathed in the waning light of the moon, this might have been farmland long ago, the hundreds of acres covered with a smooth expanse of dark clover. Ryan knew that was something farmers used in the autumn to enrich the soil and make it ready for planting crops in the spring. Except that there was no sign of a farmhouse, a silo, barn or any other type of building or structure, much less an entire ville.

Parking on a relatively smooth patch of pavement, Ryan let the main engine idle softly as he rested both arms on top of the steering wheel, and looked down at the sea of green below.

“Okay, where's Cascade?” Ryan asked, squinting. His navy telescope was in a pocket of his coat, but there was nothing in sight to point the longeye at. Just those wide fields of clover.

“John, are you sure of the directions?” Mildred asked point
edly, brushing back her beaded plaits. “Maybe we took a left past that river, when we should have gone right?”

“Of course I'm sure! That valley is supposed to be the town of Cascade,” J.B. insisted, pulling out his map. “Want to check my figures?”

“No, we trust you,” Krysty said, chewing a lip. “The journal must be wrong for some reason. Mebbe the explorer just wanted to hide the location of his home until he was sure a trader was coming, and not an army of coldhearts.”

“Now got both,” Jak retorted with a scowl.

Opening a window, Doc let in the cool night air, along with the smell of the clover and pine trees. The valley was beautiful, yet there also seemed to be an ominous presence covering the landscape, an unnerving feeling that something was terribly wrong, but it remained unseen in the shadows, around a dark corner, standing directly nearby. Annoyed, the time traveler shook off the sensation of being watched. It was just a touch of paranoia. After being in so many battles, Doc was beginning to assume that another fight was always around the bend. For a brief moment, he longed for the peace and quiet of his little home in Vermont, then set his resolve to the task at hand. The path to hearth and home led through the fiery heart of the Deathlands.

The engine turned off, silence filled the urban combat vehicle for the first time in days.

“Okay, something is definitely wrong here, so we'd better do a recce,” Ryan decided. “J.B., got those traps ready?”

“Sure thing.”

“Good. We leave the UCV here, and I want it well protected. If somebody is expecting wags, then we go in on foot. Standard two-on-two defensive formation. Krysty and I are on point.”

Leaving the disguised war wag where it was parked, the companions got ready, then proceeded carefully down the sloping sides of the valley, traveling along the natural path of
winter runoff water and rockslides. It was well past midnight before they reached the valley floor and began to move along the edge of the clover field, avoiding the thick plant growth purely on general principles. When you weren't sure of a situation, you always assumed the worst. Nine times out of ten, that was what usually happened.

At the far end of the valley, Ryan paused as a large black area came into view on the rocky slope, and he gradually became aware that it was actually a cave. Easing closer, Ryan and Krysty checked for traps or alarms, but there was only the bare stones. In the silvery moonlight, they seemed fluid, almost alive.

Slipping into the cave, the companions waited for their sight to adjust to the dark, then were forced to have Mildred use her flashlight anyway, the powerful beam dimmed by a wad of cloth. The interior walls were roughly hewn, but with the unmistakable markings of explosives and machine tools. This was no crude passage made by hand.

Advancing past a curve, Ryan softly cursed as he saw that the cave ended at a flat wall of stone. This was no tunnel through the mountains, but a deadhead, just an abandoned mine shaft that went nowhere.

Then a section of the supposedly solid wall moved silently aside and a man stepped out wearing a pair of U.S. Army night-vision goggles and carrying a sleek black autoloader. The startled men stared at each for half of a heartbeat, then both raised their weapons. The SIG-Sauer roared first, and the stranger was thrown back against the wall with most of his throat gone. Gagging on the torrent of blood gushing from the hideous wound, the man dropped to his knees, hands at his throat to try to staunch the ghastly river of life, then he slumped and fell to the floor of the cave.

Not trusting so easy a chill, Ryan put another 9 mm round into the man's chest, and the stranger twitched, a derringer falling from a limp hand to clatter on the hard stone floor. The
blaster was made of new steel and stamped with the name
Cascade.

Looking at the open doorway, Ryan debated conflicting courses of action. There were a million important questions to ask, and only one source of information. The decision made, he pointed at the other companions, issuing silent orders, then knelt to check the body while Doc and Mildred took defensive positions on either side of the open doorway. But aside from the goggles and the derringer, the man was carrying nothing except a ring of keys. With a grin of satisfaction, J.B. took the keys, and Krysty took the derringer, checking the .44 hollowpoint brass inside before tucking it into her cowboy boot.

Going to the doorway, Ryan started to slip on the goggles, but paused for Mildred to click off her flashlight. Nodding his thanks, the one-eyed man donned the device, the strap still warm from its prior owner. As expected, the goggles were set to Starlite mode, the faint moonlight streaming into the tunnel illuminating the interior crystal clear, although everything was colored different shades of green.

The door was expertly made, almost a perfect match to the surrounding rocks, and in passing it would have been undetectable. Assuming combat positions, Ryan took the lead with J.B. close behind, resting a hand on the big man's shoulder for guidance. Everybody else did the same.

There was only a narrow passage past the door, barely wide enough for a single person, and it meandered through the solid rock, abruptly ending at an iron gate. Ryan passed the goggles to J.B. and he checked for traps, disarming a claymore mine. In the tight confines of the passageway, the military explosive would have damn near blown all of them into vapor.

As expected, the keys unlocked the gate and the companions probed deeper into the mountain, their every sense straining against the impenetrable blackness.

Two more booby-trapped gates hindered their advance
along the serpentine passage until J.B. entered a small grotto with three other corridors branching off in different directions. Checking his compass, the Armorer then switched the goggles to infrared, and easily spotted a warm handprint on the wall of the left corridor from a recent touch. He started that way, then cursed and swung up the Uzi, stopping himself at the last second from triggering the weapon. What the frag?

Advancing curiously, J.B. probed at a bizarre jellylike creature clinging to the roof of the corridor. It was a flapjack, one of the most deadly muties in all of the Deathlands. Except that this one was made of plastic. Gingerly checking behind the fake, he found another claymore. Using pliers to neatly clip the arming wires and render the explosive charge inert, J.B. grunted in admiration. Anybody trying this tunnel would spot the mutie and instinctively fire, setting off the claymore. Smart. Almost too damn smart. Any more boobies like this, and the companions would have to leave.