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Baptism Of Rage
James Axler


The end of the world arrived in a nuclear rush, forging the agonized remains of past and present into a new reality known as Deathlands. Now life is a simple series of rules of survival, where having is better than not having–and anything is worth killing for.But in a world that has seemingly turned against mankind, the possibility of miracles can exist….Of all the resources Ryan Cawdor and his group struggle to recoup, hope for escaping the grim daily life-and-death struggle has suffered most. But now reports of a ville holding the mythical waters of rejuvenation, a fountain of youth, appear to be true, luring Doc and the others on a journey inspired by promise, tainted by mistrust. Hiring on as sec men with a convoy headed to the healing waters of Babyville, the survivors discover the deadly price of immortality.In the Deathlands the future looks like hell–and delivers far worse…









“You strong boys going to help with these chains, or what?”


Ryan and Jak leaped from the wag and followed Mitch into the shed while Annie remained in the passenger seat. Jak glanced back, making sure that the woman wasn’t reaching for the shotgun that was nestled in a rig beside her.

“It’s just through here,” Mitch stated as Ryan trailed him into the shadows of the outbuilding.

The one-eyed man flexed the muscles of his hand, reaching beneath his coat for the holstered SIG-Sauer. He didn’t trust Mitch or the woman, and he cursed himself for getting into this situation. If Mitch could help them, that was fine.

But this felt increasingly wrong.





Baptism of Rage


James Axler




Death Lands








www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Youth is wasted on the young.

—George Bernard Shaw

1856–1950




THE DEATHLANDS SAGA


This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to nature’s heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville’s own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan’s close ally, he, too, honed his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn’t have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan’s young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity’s last hope….




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen




Prologue


The warm autumn sun played across Doc Tanner’s back, but the cold Nebraska air behind it was heavy with the threat of approaching winter. Tanner didn’t mind. There was something enlivening about that chill, the very essence of what it was to be alive seemed contained therein.

Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner was a tall man, striking and handsome in his own way. His hair reached down past the collar of his crisp, white shirt, and bright blue eyes peered inquisitively from beneath his high forehead.

He was a man of great learning, with two degrees to his name and a tea chest in his attic that was filled with diplomas and certificates that he had never bothered to display. Tanner knew that the proof of learning couldn’t be found in degrees, wasn’t awarded on slips of paper. Learning was about understanding, about the application of knowledge in new and interesting and remarkable ways.

Even now, Tanner’s mind was working over a hypothesis that one of his colleagues had been discussing with him earlier that day. He had been presented with a theory of time movement, his colleague proposing the ability to actually travel through time as though it were a road with way stations and stop-off points. The theory struck Tanner as preposterous, the stuff of science fiction, and yet he found himself turning the concept over and over in his mind as he made his way along the streets back to the cozy, two-story home that he shared with Emily and his children, Rachel and Jolyon.

Whether possible or not, Tanner realized, the idea of traveling through time held untold fascination. Imagine going back in time to the days of Pompeii or Atlantis or Our Lord Jesus Christ. Imagine if one could go back and halt the crucifixion. Wouldn’t that be a quandary for Pastor Richards when the Tanner family listened to his sermon on Sunday at the local church?

Tanner smiled at the thought, before pushing it to one side. No, traveling back in time was fraught with danger; the potential to generate a new history, to create a paradoxical situation, was simply too hazardous. Better perhaps to travel forward, follow the road into the future to see the wonders that man would bestow upon himself in a hundred years or more.

Pushing open his front door, Theophilus Tanner smelled the wondrous cooking aromas coming from the kitchen. “Emily?” he called. “I am home.”

A moment later, as Tanner hung his jacket over one of the hooks beside the door, his wife appeared, her long skirts swishing about her as she trotted along the gaslit corridor to meet with him.

“How was your day, my darling?” Emily asked, her voice as soothing as a lullaby.

Tanner nodded. “It was…” he began and then checked himself. “It was but a mere precursor to the wonder of seeing your beauty once more, my heart.”

Emily was abashed, waving away his compliment. “You only say that because you smell what’s cooking,” she chastised him. Even so, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Pot roast?” Tanner asked as Emily’s lips brushed against him.

“Yes, and it’s almost ready,” Emily assured him. “Mayhap twenty minutes before it is served. Time enough for you to shave those whiskers.” With that, she turned and made her way back to the kitchen to check on the simmering pot roast.

Tanner reached up and stroked his hand along his jowls, feeling the rough stubble that was forming there. Emily had never liked to kiss him when he had evidence of a beard, and so he had always remained clean-shaved for her. He checked his pocketwatch, tilting to see the time in the dull gas-lamplight of the passageway. A quarter of seven. Yes, he could quickly run the razor blade over his forming beard before they sat down to their repast.

Shortly thereafter, Theo Tanner took a boiling kettle of water to the bathroom at the rear of the house and filled the basin there. His shaving equipment, the blade, strop and soap, were held in the cabinet, well out of sight and reach of children’s curious eyes and wandering hands. Tanner pushed the mirror to one side and reached for them.

As the water steamed in the basin, Tanner closed the bathroom cupboard door and stood the mirror back in place before it so that he could see himself to shave.

His face looked much older. It was his face, still, but aged, so terribly aged. It wasn’t the face of a man in his early thirties, it was the face of a man of perhaps sixty. And, as Tanner watched, his face aged further, the skin tautening around his eyes and mouth, his bony cheeks sinking, becoming dark and hollow beneath the glare of the bathroom lamp, his hair thinning, pulling back from his already high forehead. Tanner watched in horror as the skin on his cheeks showed liver spots and began to rot, and then he could see the inside of his mouth through those cheeks where holes in the flesh—his flesh—had split open.

I am losing my mind, he realized as the face in the mirror continued its ceaseless entropic march. It was the only possible explanation. People didn’t age like this, young to old in a matter of seconds. It was impossible.

His bright blue eyes seemed beady now as the hollows around them sunk, almost as though his face was pulling away. His nose had elongated somehow, but perhaps that was an optical trick, a result of his face’s withering and receding. Tanner raised his hands, pushing them against his face to try to hold everything in place, to keep from getting any older. But when he looked in the mirror he saw that his hands were just bones, the fingers of a skeleton.

“Am I dying?” he asked. “Is this dying?”

The door opened behind him, and Tanner watched over his shoulder in the mirror as Emily walked in, a vision of youthful beauty to his ancient decrepitude. “Dinner’s almost ready, darling,” she said, seemingly oblivious to the change in him.

Tanner turned, his skeletal hands still pressed against his rotting face, a picture of entropy. “My dearest,” he said, his voice sounding like dried leaves to his ears, “I fear I may be a little late.”

Emily saw him for the first time then, the change in him, and her eyes widened as she looked at her husband.

And then she began to scream.




Chapter One


Ryan Cawdor’s lone blue eye sprang open and he turned to locate the source of the sobbing he could hear. He sat on the floor of a jump chamber, and he could detect the faint hum of machinery as extractor fans whirred to clear away the lingering mist in the sealed room.

Ryan was a tall and imposing man with an unkempt mane of black hair framing his hard, scarred face. A long scar stretched along his cheek until it ended just above his left eye socket. The eye itself was missing, the evidence hidden behind a black leather eye patch. A dark pattern of stubble shaded his cheeks, the ugly white streak of scarred skin showing through.

Struggling to keep his head upright, Ryan looked at the source of the sobbing—a white-haired man just a little way across from him in the enclosed chamber. Doc Tanner was huddled in a corner, his head bowed, his shoulders heaving up and down as piteous, muffled cries came from his throat.

“Doc?” Ryan asked gently. “You okay?”

Doc looked up with bloodshot eyes, wiping at the tears that streaked his face. He appeared to be a man of perhaps sixty years of age, deep lines on his face and a shock of white hair billowing from his scalp like steam from an olden-day locomotive. He wore a Victorian frock coat over his smart trousers and white shirt. The shirt, like the coat, had seen better days. A walking cane lay on the tiled floor at his feet, an ebony stick with a polished, silver lion’s head design for its handle.

The old man reached inside his coat and pulled out a blue handkerchief decorated with a swallow’s-eye design, carefully unfolded it, then used it to dab at his drying tears. “Must it always begin like this, Ryan?” Doc asked, his usually rich baritone sounding raw with pain.

Ryan shook his head slowly, feeling the cramp in his neck muscles abate with the movement, before rising to his feet and looking around the mat-trans chamber. There were six companions in all, including himself and Doc Tanner. The other four were only now beginning to stir, dragging themselves back into full consciousness after the debilitating jump.

The mat-trans was designed to transport personnel and supplies instantaneously across the United States of America. It was a point-to-point matter-transfer device that stripped an object down to its component atoms before blasting them into the quantum ether where they could be retrieved by a receiver unit.

Traveling by mat-trans took an incredible toll on a person, causing headaches, nausea and vomiting among other side effects, but the most damaging effect was on a person’s psyche. It seemed that no matter how many times the group journeyed by mat-trans, they were still unprepared for the hideous jump dreams that it could cause. This time around, Doc Tanner, clearly, had been suffering some hallucination during the deconstruction and reforming of his corporeality.

“Deep breaths, Doc,” Ryan instructed as he checked on his other companions, feeling each of their necks in turn for a pulse. “Let it pass.”

Doc nodded, mopping the cold sweat from his brow with the handkerchief and pushing his damp white hair back from his face. “I have not had a dream quite that intense in a while,” he muttered as he slowly drew a long, deep breath.

Krysty Wroth began to push herself up into a sitting position as Ryan reached for her pulse, stretching her long legs before her and wincing as the muscles protested. Ryan’s lover, Krysty was a tall woman, curvaceous beneath the blue denim jeans and cream-colored shirt she habitually wore under her shaggy fur coat. With green eyes and pale white skin, Krysty was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, utterly stunning to look at. Her most notable feature, however, was her vibrant, flame-red hair, which fell about her face like a cascading waterfall. There was something uncanny about Krysty’s hair—it seemed to almost have a life of its own. Actually, Krysty was a mutie, and while her mutation was minor by Deathlands standards, it was plainly visible if you knew where to look, for her hair truly was alive. It crackled, it swirled, it shone and it vibrated depending on her mood. That wasn’t the only remarkable thing about Krysty, however. Besides being an excellent marksman and hand-to-hand combatant, Krysty held a secret ability in check—her ability to tap into the strength of the Earth Mother, Gaia. This Gaia power had been taught to Krysty by her mother, Sonja, and allowed her to call on incredible, superhuman strength in times of greatest need. But while Krysty could use such abilities to perform astonishing, seemingly impossible feats of might, the boost was short-lived and left her physically weak once it had passed. Like so much in the Deathlands, Krysty’s abilities were a curse as much as a blessing.

“Hey, lover,” Krysty drawled as her gaze lighted on Ryan. “I was just dreaming about you. You and me and a riverboat made for two.”

Ryan shrugged. “Mebbe that’s what’s waiting for us outside,” he said with a smile.

“Mebbe so,” Krysty said quietly, pushing her flame-red locks out of her eyes.

There was another woman in the chamber, shorter and stocky, with dark skin. Mildred Wyeth was a medical doctor of some flair. She had been born in the latter half of the twentieth century but, due to a botched operation, had been placed in cryogenic stasis just before the outbreak of nuclear hostilities in 2001. Freed from the cryo chamber a hundred years later by Ryan and his companions, Mildred had thanked every saint that her pastor father had spoken of when she learned that she had slept through the nukecaust and the terrifying skydark that followed. Sneering, the saints had to have deserted her moments after, when she realized that the people who had been killed in those early days had been the lucky ones, and that all that was left was the waking nightmare known as the Deathlands. She had no family, no friends. In time, Mildred had adapted to the shocking new reality, and while her medical skills had been invaluable, it was her Olympic-level abilities with a target pistol that had really helped her come into her own in this shockscape future she had awakened to. Mildred wore black denim jeans and a black T-shirt, with a holster at her hip that held her favored weapon, a Czech-made, ZKR 551 target pistol. A loose-fitting black jacket matched her pants. Mildred shook her head, her beaded plaits swaying about as she recovered from the journey through quantum space. “Aw, damn,” she groaned, running a hand over her cheek, “I have sleeping creases on my face. Why didn’t somebody wake me earlier?”

Krysty turned to the woman and showed a bright, warm smile. “Such a sleepyhead,” she said with a pleasant chuckle, and Mildred joined in a moment later as Ryan made his way across the room to check on his remaining companions.

Leaning against the wall that was farthest from Doc was J. B. Dix, also known as the Armorer. He was much shorter than Ryan, wiry, rather than muscular, and lacked Ryan’s regal air. J.B. wore an oversize jacket with capacious pockets in which he kept numerous weapons and caches of bullets. J.B. was a weaponsmith of exceptional knowledge, and his designation as “the Armorer” was well-earned. He didn’t simply know blasters, he loved them. Ballistics wasn’t a science to him, it was an art form.

J.B. was a little older than Ryan, and the pair had been companions on the road for many years, dating back to the days of the legendary Trader, who roamed the Deathlands in War Wag One. The Armorer habitually wore a battered brown fedora atop his head, the shadow of its brim hiding his eyes the way his jacket hid his arsenal. Round-framed spectacles were perched on the bridge of his nose. J.B. was shortsighted, and without them his targeting ability was significantly compromised.

The final member of the group was Jak Lauren. An albino, Jak’s skin was chalk white, and his shoulder-length hair was the color of bone. Jak was a wild child, heading toward the end of adolescence and still as thin as a rake. His face was sharp, its angular planes like blades. As Ryan watched, the young man’s eyes flickered open, twin orbs of a terrifying ruby red. Jak wore a camo jacket that was decorated with shards of glass and sharp slivers of metal to prevent anyone grabbing at him unawares. Bits of razor were sewn into the collar. Jak spoke in scattered streams of words, as though his thoughts were too close to the surface to wait for formation into complete sentences. He could kill with blaster or with his bare hands, but he was most comfortable with his .357 Magnum Colt Python and the many leaf-bladed throwing knives he had secreted about his loose clothing.

“Got sicks,” Jak murmured as Ryan checked on him, pulling himself to a crouching position and wrapping his arms around his knees. He had been with the companions for a long time, and he knew the feeling of nausea brought on by the mat-trans jump would pass. He just had to wait it out.

As he strode to the door, Ryan checked the breach of his 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 blaster, ensuring it was loaded as he spoke. He had another weapon—a scoped SSG-70 Steyr rifle—strapped to his back, and an eighteen-inch panga held in strapped to his leg.

“Everyone looks in one piece,” he stated. “We all about ready to move?”

There was a general groan of consent from the companions as they checked their own weapons.

“Right,” Ryan continued. “Triple red until we know what’s out there.” That said, the one-eyed man depressed the door’s lever.



FOR ALL THEIR differences in geography, most every mat-trans seemed to be the same. The compact matter-transfer chamber was usually located in a redoubt, an old U.S. military installation occupying a remote location, deliberately hidden from public view. Or in a few cases hidden in plain sight.

Warily, the six companions made their way swiftly through the bland concrete corridors, searching for working armament, ammo and food as they went. The place appeared deserted, but Ryan and his colleagues had learned never to make assumptions like that. When you assume, as J. B. Dix sometimes stated, you made a corpse out of you and me.

Dark water stains marred the gray walls and ceilings, peppered here and there with mould a lime green and vibrant, vomit yellow. Pools of water, no deeper than an inch, glistened on the floor of the corridors as the automated lighting pop-pop-popped to life when hundred-year-old motion sensors detected the companions passing through. Obviously there was a breach in the walls somewhere.

It didn’t take long to locate the exit, and Ryan and Krysty worked the door controls before cautiously leading the way outside into the balmy evening air. It was raining, a needle-thin, warm drizzle that smelled faintly of sulfur. Acid rain was a major concern. A potent rain could strip flesh from the bone in minutes.

“Nice,” Krysty said sarcastically. She tentatively stretched out a hand into the drizzle. Not even a tingle, which meant there was no acid in the rain.

“Come out and play, lover,” Krysty teased, turning around and around as the rain spattered on her upturned face, her eyes screwed tightly closed.

The one-eyed man walked out into the shower to join Krysty, reaching his big arm around her back. The others followed a moment later.

Ryan glanced up at the sky and adjusted the time on his wristwatch. “Looks like we’ve crossed time zones,” he said. “Figure we’re out east somewhere. What do you say, J.B.?”

J.B. was consulting his minisextant, But the bad weather made it impossible to get a bearing on their location. Mildred spoke up. “We’re in Tennessee,” she said. As one, the companions turned to her with questioning looks. “I read it on one of the order forms back in the redoubt,” she explained with a shrug.

Jak joined Ryan and Krysty at the head of the group and, walking three abreast, the companions made their way along a muddy track and out through a clump of overgrown vegetation. The albino pointed out some vibrant red berries that grew on one of the bushes as they passed. “Hungry?” he asked Ryan.

Ryan nodded, wondering if he should taste the berries, but Krysty was shaking her head in warning. He saw several beetles eating at the berries, their black carapaces glistening with raindrops.

Grinning, Jak shook his head, too. “Chilled later,” he explained.

Ryan withdrew his hand and advised the others not to touch the flora. “Poison berries,” he said by way of explanation.

Beyond the vegetation that masked the redoubt entrance, the companions found themselves in what looked like another shit-forsaken excuse for farmland. An old road stretched off toward the horizon, its asphalt surface cracked, the open rents bubbling with the putrid rainwater. Around the road were several fields, one containing a few gangly stalks of corn, another a regimented orchard full of dead apple trees, their pointed branches like reaching talons, black nails clawing for the cloud-dulled sky. Several cawing birds, large with dark plumage, braved the rain to swoop into the fields, picking off insects or rodents that their sharp eyesight had spied.

As Jak sprinted ahead, scoping out the area about them, Krysty fell into step with Ryan, sidling close and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Seems like a nice place,” she drawled, looking up into Ryan’s good right eye.

“No one’s tried to kill us yet,” Ryan stated. “I could grow to like that.”

Behind them, Mildred was taking inventory of the contents of her medical kit, checking her dwindling supplies as she walked along the churned-up remains of the cracked strip of road.

J.B. and Doc took up the rear, walking beside each other, the older man swinging his lion’s-head cane with a flourish as he took each step.

Watching the road with alert eyes, J.B. said quietly, “What was going on back there, Doc?” he asked. “You seemed pretty out of it.”

“Old ghosts,” the old man replied thoughtfully, “come back to haunt me once again. Emily. My dear sweet Emily.”

Emily was Doc’s wife, J.B. knew, back from a hundred years before the nukecaust. Doc had a strange life’s journey. He had been born in the nineteenth century, and had lived the life of an academic before finding himself the subject of a cruel experiment in time manipulation. Against his will, Doc had been pulled through time by the scientists of Project Chronos, into the tail end of the twentieth century.

However, those same scientists—“whitecoats” in the Deathlands vernacular—had reckoned without Doc’s intellect, and had soon become exasperated with his continued attempts to hinder and outright retard their progress. Using the same time-trawling technology, they had dumped their irascible subject far in the future, and Doc had suddenly found himself in the Deathlands, one hundred years after the nukecaust, fending for himself as a court jester.

But that hadn’t been the worst of it. Poor Doc Tanner had physically aged, like a time-lapse film, and found himself a man in his thirties trapped in the body of one much, much older. It had been a cruel fate, and had almost unhinged Doc’s mind. For a while, during their early companionship, J.B. had known the old man to snap into visions and memories, convinced he was back home with his wife and children.

“Jump nightmares aren’t easy on anyone,” J.B. pointed out. “Gotta shake it off, Doc.”

Doc sighed his agreement. A part of him had taken perverse joy in seeing his dear Emily again, and he regretted letting the dream fade, however horrific its conclusion had been.

As the companions trudged along the cracked highway, they heard a rumbling in the distance. Fifteen minutes later, a posse of wags, four in all, trundled past them. They were led by two old truck rigs belching putrid black smoke from their upright exhaust pipes. Behind the rigs, a horse-drawn wag bumped over the cracked road, a woman and baby visible inside the rotten shell of the four-wheel drive that the horses pulled, the animals themselves looking tired and hungry, bony shoulder blades close to the surface of their matted coats. Finally, a tractor that had been converted to carry passengers in a covered section stretching behind it puttered along. The companions stood to one side and watched as the convoy made its slow progress along the bumpy road.

“Guess we’re on Main Street,” J.B. muttered, casting a significant look at Ryan before turning his attention back to the passing wags.

Like most people in the Deathlands, the companions were wary of strangers. Life was a series of rules of survival, primary among them was the simple edict of “chill or be chilled.” Communities, little baronies called villes, may work together for the purposes of farming and social cohesion, but outlanders were invariably treated with contempt. Chilling a man for the boots he wore wasn’t unheard-of, even if those boots didn’t fit and leaked water like a sieve. In the Deathlands, having was better than not having, pure and simple.

“I wonder where they are going?” Doc said amiably, as the wags continued down the broken tarmac.

“Same place we’re going, most likely,” J.B. replied. “As far down the road as they can until they either find something worth stopping for or die of exhaustion.”

The old man snorted with amusement. In that single sentence, J.B. had summed up the motivation that kept the restless companions themselves moving ever onward, mat-trans by mat-trans.



RYAN AND HIS GROUP continued walking along the broken road for another twenty minutes until, as dusk fell and the putrid drizzle continued its relentless assault on the travelers, they spotted a scattering of ramshackle buildings arranged on either side of the blistered blacktop. The wags were just pulling over, placing themselves beside similar parked vehicles, and Ryan could see that they were stopping off in the dirt beside a cluster of three large wooden buildings.

Ryan held his hand up to bring his companions to a halt, and Krysty called to Jak to wait. Then Ryan pulled the scoped SSG-70 Steyr rifle from his back. The one-eyed man rested the butt of the weapon against his shoulder and peered into the powerful magnification lens of the scope.

“Couple of sec men,” he said as he studied the clutch of buildings ahead, spotting two well-armed toughs patrolling the area as the wag riders disembarked. Then he spotted another sec man through the scope, and yet another a moment later, both of them brandishing assault rifles with holstered blasters at their hips. “Make that three,” Ryan continued in an emotionless voice. “No, four. Sentry post half-buried across to the right of the road, pillbox design. Can see a light there, someone’s inside.”

“Anything else?” J.B. prompted as Ryan slowly scanned the horizon through the scope.

After a moment, Ryan shifted the rifle from its resting place against his shoulder. “Looks friendly,” he announced, relief on his scarred face.

Even as he said it, the sound of blasterfire tore across the fields, cutting through the stillness.




Chapter Two


Ryan peered into the scope again to examine the little settlement. Beside him, J.B. had produced a pair of minibinocs from inside his voluminous coat, while Jak simply narrowed his eyes, using his hand to shade them from the dwindling sunlight of dusk. Behind them, Doc, Krysty and Mildred became alert, checking their weapons in readiness.

Locating the flashes of blasterfire through the magnifying scope, Ryan saw several members of the wag train blasting shots at something he couldn’t immediately recognize. Whatever it was, it was the color of shadow and it moved liquid fast and low to the ground as the drizzling rain continued lashing at the soil. As Ryan tracked the dark mass, parts of it broke away, and he realized it was a pack of dogs, or maybe wolves. One of the creatures bolted across the darkening field and leaped into the frightened crowd emerging from the convoy. It moved as a blur across the gun’s magnifying lens, and Ryan felt his breath catch as the creature grappled with an elderly man, its powerful forelegs driving its prey to the ground. The hound shook its victim by the arm as he tumbled to the mud, ripping at the man’s forearm amid a gush of blood.

Without a moment’s thought, Ryan instantly steadied his breathing, calmed his heart rate and gently squeezed the trigger on the Steyr rifle. A bullet sped from the rifle’s muzzle with a loud report, zipping through the air and driving into the creature’s head where it reared in the center of Ryan’s crosshairs. Ryan watched the dark-furred beast topple with the impact of his bullet and roll across the slick ground, away from its elderly victim. Then Ryan felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he saw the creature scramble around on the ground for a moment before, remarkably, pulling itself up, a bloody hole pulsing at the right-hand side of its head. The crazy mutie dog was still alive, shaking off the effect of the bullet’s impact!

J.B. watched through his binoculars as he stood by Ryan’s shoulder, and the one-eyed man heard his friend’s incredulous mutter of “Dark night” as the canine stood. A few paces ahead of Ryan, Jak broke from the group, sprinting into the field in the direction of the settlement.

The wolf’s long head turned and, for a moment, the dark-furred creature seemed to be peering down the scope of the rifle, its feral, yellow-eyed glare boring directly into Ryan’s right eye as its black lips pulled back from blood-washed teeth.

Ryan didn’t flinch. Settling himself into a stable, kneeling position on the water-slicked blacktop, he squeezed the trigger again, feeling the Steyr drum against his shoulder as it blasted another bullet at the beast. The slug whipped through the air just above the ground until it met with the monster, directly between its rage-filled eyes. Blood erupted from the creature’s face in a red mist, mixing immediately with the drizzling rain.

Ryan didn’t stay to try a third shot. He rolled the rifle from his shoulder and turned to instruct his companions. “Some kind of mutie dogs, mebbe wolves,” he grunted, getting up and leading the way across the broken highway at a fast trot. The others followed, all except Jak, who had already disappeared into the fields, taking it upon himself to get closer to the action in his own way.

Taking deep breaths as he jogged at Ryan’s side, J.B. pulled his M-4000 scattergun from beneath his coat. “Those bastards,” he growled, “are gonna take a little something extra.”

“Any ideas?” Ryan asked.

The Armorer turned to Ryan, loading the scattergun one-handed as they ran along the slippery, broken tarmac toward the settlement. “Keep your eye open,” he instructed with a humorless grin.



AS SOON AS THE BLASTERSHOTS rang out, Jak’s senses went to high alert. His keen mind was already considering options by the time Ryan blasted his first shot from the Steyr, and he had disappeared among the avenues of high wheat crop before Ryan had pumped his second shot into the monstrous creature.

Jak was closer now, his Colt Python clenched in his bone-white hand, as he weaved through the anemic-looking rows of wheat, making his way toward the shacks. The spindly wheat drooped, weighed down by the raindrops that had settled upon it.

It looked like a pack of wolves—at least a dozen, heavy creatures with muscular legs and lean, hungry bodies. Their fur was fecal brown with black streaks, which made them hard to keep track of in the ebbing daylight.

Even as Jak watched, another of the monstrous creatures sprang away from the pack, rushing at a dark-haired woman holding a baby in her arms. The woman jogged backward as the creature howled as it raced at her, arching its back menacingly. Then it leaped, and Jak watched—emotionless—as its jaws clamped around the woman’s neck, rending a hunk of flesh from just below her throat in a dark stain of red. Then it shook its head, tossing her bleeding body aside, blood splashed across its sharp, daggerlike teeth. The woman flopped in a heap on the ground, letting go of her child as she collapsed, mud splattering all around her.

Sec men were scrambling about, trying to frighten away the beasts by firing into the air and firing at the near-impervious monsters themselves, but no one had time—or inclination—to assist in the woman’s plight.

She wasn’t dead yet however, that was what Jak knew. She wasn’t dead, nor was the baby. So Jak ran, head down, arms pumping at his sides, feet striking the rain-soaked soil, rushing to get into a position where he might help her.

Emerging from the field, Jak scanned the scene ahead. The woman was lying still, just a few feet from the monstrous wolf as its jaws widened around the bundled baby that lay wailing on the ground, its pink blanket splattered with mud. The other people from the caravan and three sec men of the ville were running about, desperately fending off the rest of the pack, ducking behind the sheltering walls of the nearby buildings. Jak spotted the bloody remains of another sec man beside the pillbox sentry post, two of the gigantic wolves feasting on his entrails as he kicked and screamed.

Sprinting through the field, Jak turned his attention back to the woman with the baby. He raised the heavy revolver in his hand, sighting down the length of his arm and pulling the trigger as he ran. There was a boom, a flash and the smell of cordite hung in the air as his first shot blasted into the wolf’s flank. Staggered, the foul creature turned its long-muzzled head to face Jak, the baby still clamped, drooping from its jaws.

Jak stopped, his boot heels sliding momentarily in the wet soil, and he reeled off three more shots at the wolf as it began to race toward him, its feet striking the earth in a drumming tarantella, its pace increasing with every step. The first .357 Magnum bullet merely clipped the monster’s ear, but the second and third found their target, drilling into the beast’s right eye, exploding the eyeball and powering onward into its brainpan.

The dark-furred monstrosity staggered a moment, its legs giving way under it like a ville drunk on free hooch night, before opening its jaws and dropping the child to the ground with a thump. The child rolled over and over, howling in shock, and the beast followed, its body sagging into a clump at Jak’s feet. The albino teen warily watched the creature’s legs spasm, kicking out in awful jerking movements as its dying form lay in the soaking, muddy earth.

Then he leaned close, placing the muzzle of the Colt flush against the side of the monster’s head, and pulled the trigger once more. After that, the hulking thing stopped twitching.

Leaning down, Jak picked up the baby. The pink blanket that it was wrapped in was stained with mud and disheveled from the creature’s attack, but the child seemed intact, its eyes screwing up as it wailed. Jak rocked the baby back and forth as he made his way toward the wounded woman who was lying in the mud.



WITH A FINAL BURST of speed, Ryan raced ahead of his companions, the scoped Steyr rifle slapping against his back where he’d slung it, his 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 blaster now clenched in his right fist. The Armorer raced to keep up with his longtime friend, sweeping the area with the Smith & Wesson scattergun as the pack of wolves lunged at the locals with the savagery of a raging river bursting its banks. As soon as the pair reached the half-buried pillbox, their weapons spit fire, blasting shot after shot into the crowd of mutie hounds. The dismembered sec man lay there, an explosion of blood where his torso had once been.

A little way back, the remaining companions took up static positions on the cracked blacktop. Doc wielded his deadly LeMat, an ancient percussion pistol that had been adapted to include an additional shotgun barrel capable of unleashing a single, devastating .63-caliber shot. To either side of the white-haired man, Krysty and Mildred were scanning the fields along the sights of their own handguns. Krysty favored a small revolver, a .38 Smith & Wesson Model 640, a stubby gun with plenty of stopping power. Across from her, Mildred had her double-action ZKR 551 targeting revolver in her hand.

Mildred’s heart was pounding, and she steadied her grip by placing her free hand tightly beneath the wrist of her right hand. In her other life, a hundred years before, Mildred had been an Olympic free-shooting silver medalist, and she valued the need for a still mind and a steady aim when facing a target, even one as savage and unpredictable as the oversize wolves.

There was a risk that more of the pack were hidden in the crops surrounding them, and the two women were meticulous as they eyeballed the fields in the ebbing light.

“Incoming!” Doc shouted suddenly as four of the muscular beasts broke from the pack at the shacks and scampered across the rain-slickened blacktop toward them, their large paws slapping against the cracked tarmac.

Krysty and Mildred swung around, aiming their blasters at the oncoming creatures as Doc unleashed that cacophonous .63-caliber wad of shot. The result was dazzling in the twilight, a bright explosion of light and fury. Twenty feet ahead, the lead wolf was eviscerated, exploding in a burst of guts and flesh, its head crumbling to the ground as two uneven hunks of flesh and bone.

The other wolves slowed their pace for a moment, a tremulous whine coming from one of them, before racing once more toward Doc and the women. Mildred had their height now, and she snapped off a steady stream of bullets into the left-most member of the group, almost casually, such was her unhurried manner. To Doc’s right, Krysty held her Smith & Wesson tightly, her finger softly stroking the silver trigger as she waited for the shot. In an instant, she squeezed the trigger, pumping it repeatedly and launching 9 mm bullet after 9 mm bullet at the wolf to the right of the group.

Both wolves dropped simultaneously, sinking to the ground as the streams of bullets snagged them. They were still alive, their bodies thrashing, but chunks of their heads and bodies were missing now, bloodied strips of bone visible in the one to the left where Mildred’s attack had struck at the same point repeatedly.

The mutie in the center continued its charge, its head down, jaws slavering as it powered toward Doc and the companions, ignoring the harsh fate of its brethren. Its shotgun capacity exhausted, the LeMat in Doc’s hand spit fire from its standard barrel, driving a shot into the creature as it sprang off the ground toward him. At the last possible instant, Doc simultaneously ducked and sidestepped, letting the heavy form of the wolf sail over his shoulder, so close that he could smell the foul stench of the flesh that had been caught between its blood-soaked teeth.

The beast landed heavily behind Doc and the companions, its feet hitting the slick tarmac with a thud before it scampered around to face the three friends once more, kicking up rainwater as it turned. Its dark lips peeled back and it loosed a low, angry snarl as it glared at the white-haired old man.

Krysty and Mildred began blasting shots at the monster, but it was already moving, its padded feet slapping loudly against the cracked and broken blacktop of the road.

“Dammit, it’s too fast,” Mildred spat. “I can’t get a bead…”

To Doc’s other side, Krysty muttered something in agreement, but he ignored both women and timed the creature’s movements in his head. All he could do was keep out of the monster’s way. The hulking mutie barreled at him, howling as it ran, and Doc spun on the heel of his boot, pulling the sweeping tails of his dark blue frock coat to one side like a matador taunting a charging bull.

“By the Three Kennedys!” Doc cried as the monstrous hound passed him, its meaty shoulder knocking into his leg as he struggled to step out of its way. It had been a glancing blow, barely a tap, but the speed and power of the wolf was such that it had crashed against Doc’s leg with the impact of a jackhammer. Even as he cried out, the old man felt his balance waver and suddenly he went tumbling to the ground.

He looked up as he struggled to recover, and saw that the wolf was running in a tight circle, doubling back to lunge at him again with those fierce, snapping jaws. Mildred was trying to shoot the monster, but most of her shots were going wide because the hellish hound moved so fast. As well, those shots that did hit seemed to leave no impression on the enraged beast whatsoever. Still struggling on the ground, Doc saw that the nightmarish creature was almost upon him.

But the dark-furred beast never reached the old man’s fallen form. A thin, pale hand lunged out and grabbed the wolf by the ankle of its hind leg. The beast yelped in surprise as it was pulled back, its leap abruptly curtailed.

Everything was moving so fast that Doc had to recover his thoughts before he could process what it was he saw. Krysty had the hulking wolf by the ankle of its right hind leg and, as it snapped its jaws at her, her other hand whipped out and slapped it across its snout. Even with the sound of drizzle washing against the road, Doc heard the sharp noise of cracking bone when Krysty’s hand hit, and the monstrous wolf whined. Its jaw was misaligned now, Doc saw, and wouldn’t close properly on its hinge. The wolf’s putrescent yellow eyes were wide with terror.

As Doc and Mildred watched, Krysty swung the dark-furred form down on the ground, letting go of its ankle as its spine cracked against the hard tarmac. The beast shuddered on the ground for a moment, struggling to stand. Krysty swung her leg back and punted the hound in the face with the pointed toe of her silver-capped boot. Doc felt his breath catch in his throat as the creature’s face—remarkably—caved in with the tremendous force behind that kick.

And then Krysty took two wavering steps before sinking to her knees before the bloody carcass of the mutie wolf. She had used the power of Gaia, the Earth Mother, Doc knew, a remarkable spring of power that came from the earth itself, infusing Krysty with incredible, superhuman strength for a very short period of time. The Gaia power was brief, a firework burst of energy, and, as its glow faded, it left Krysty as weak as a kitten.

Mildred was already crouching beside Krysty, concerned, checking that the remarkable redhead was all right. Beside them, the huge wolf lay still, its once proud snout now a concave mess of shattered bone.

“Thank you kindly, my dear Krysty,” Doc managed to say as he struggled back to his feet and retrieved his lion’s-head cane from the ground.



THE SCATTERGUN BOOMED as J.B. launched another blast at the wolf pack that had rounded on the little clutch of buildings. The pack was wary now, having lost several of its brethren to these lethal newcomers. A little way behind J.B., Ryan skipped backward, his SIG-Sauer blaster held before him, nearing the struggling group that had emerged from the caravan of mismatched wags.

“Everyone okay?” Ryan asked in his authoritative voice, peering over his shoulder for a snap second before turning back to the circling mutie hounds.

“We have three wounded,” someone—a young man’s voice—explained from over Ryan’s shoulder.

Jak’s familiar voice called from behind Ryan then, providing a little more information in his strangely abrupt manner of speech. “Baby and Ma, not look good.”

“Just get everyone inside, Jak,” Ryan commanded, not taking his eyes off the feral creatures before him. “They’ll be safe there.”

As he spoke, one of the wolves made a break for it, lurching forward on its wide paws, picking up speed as it rushed at the retreating group of humans. J.B. leaned over his M-4000, firing three thunderous shots at the monstrosity while Ryan unleashed a flurry of bullets at its feet, as though daring it to come closer.

The wolf turned, scampering back to the pack, its tail low. Watching the creature scramble away, a tight smile on his lips, J.B. held his ground a moment before taking a single pace forward and blasting another shot from the shotgun. The blast ripped into the creature’s back, knocking it over itself as the explosion rocked its hind legs. It struggled a moment, then got back on its feet and continued to run away, limping a little as it disappeared among the soaked shafts of wheat. The wolves around it watched, their heads low, snarling between clenched teeth before finally turning tail and running.

J.B. and Ryan blasted off several more rounds, accompanied by Jak, who now stood at Ryan’s side. They watched as the creatures weaved through the high fields of wheat and disappeared from sight.

“Come back, reckon?” Jak asked, his heavy revolver still trained on the field where the monsters had run.

“Bastard sure of it,” Ryan growled. “We should find some cover of our own.”

Ryan turned to peer around them, giving the little group of shacks the once-over before turning his gaze down the road to where his other companions were hurrying to join them. Doc had loaned his ebony walking cane to Krysty, who was now using it to aid her progress on weakened legs. Mildred brought up the rear of the group, her ZKR 551 target pistol poised in a straight-armed grip.

“Krysty?” Ryan asked, jogging over to be at her side. “What happened?”

Krysty looked up at him between sweat-and-rain-dampened strands of her red hair, and a wonderfully innocent smile crossed her face. “Just a little bump and grind, lover, nothing to get jealous over,” she assured him with good humor, but her voice sounded weak.

Ryan shot the others a meaningful look and Doc took that as his cue.

“She called on Gaia,” Doc said. “Saved this very grateful man’s life in so doing.”

Ryan nodded. He knew the Gaia power affected his most precious companion. He knew, too, that she would come back around again, back to full health in a little while. It just took time, and right now, standing out here waiting for another mutie wolf attack was about the least smart way to spend it. “Let’s everyone get inside,” he instructed, putting his arm around Krysty’s waist to help her across the road to the nearest wooden building.

A wooden fence stood waist-high with a gate that caught on a simple latch, the kind used to stop farm animals getting out or wildlife—like mutie wolves—getting in. Beyond that, a two-story shack waited, and piano music drifted from inside.

A bewildered goat was tethered outside the rotting wooden shack, soaked through and bleating miserably in the downpour. The words Traid n Post had been carved into a sign beside the building’s front door with a smaller sign below that read Good Eaten. Music drifted from inside as someone pounded at the keys of a badly tuned piano.

The goat bleated as the six travelers made their way past it to go inside, and Jak stopped to marvel at the sorry-looking creature. He felt an affinity for the animal as it looked up at him hopefully, its satanic red eyes matching Jak’s own, white fur and tuft of beard in imitation of Jak’s colorless skin and pure white stubble. The goat rested on a square of rough plywood, with two wheels on an axle running beneath it. Its hind legs had been removed high on the shoulder, not even the hint of a stump remaining, and Jak could see the jagged black thread lining the animal’s white fur where the amputations had been sewn closed. As Jak looked at the beast, its fur matted with the awful drizzle that was still lancing at the ground with needle-thin precision, they heard a bleating and two more goats, a nanny and her kid, came prancing around the corner. Each of them wore a collar with a short length of rope tying one to the other, preventing them from moving comfortably without butting into each other. All three sorry creatures looked hungry.

The first animal bleated again, shaking its head from side to side as Jak turned away and followed his companions into the building. The goat scrabbled forward with its remaining forelegs, the rest of its body following on the wheeled base, until the tether line pulled taut at its neck and halted its progress. It let out another sorrowful bleat as it watched this kindred spirit disappear through the dirty, burn-streaked door.

Jak smelled the air as he entered the run-down shack and a smile touched his pale lips as he scented rich cooking spices.

The room that the companions had entered was roughly twenty feet square, encompassing the full length of the building. To one side, on a raised platform, stood the badly tuned piano, played by an attractive, dark-haired woman wearing a low-cut dress and a single incisor tooth in her open mouth.

Two young women, scantily clad and with collars at their necks, danced lethargically to the clanking tune of the piano, entertainment for the patrons of this trading post. The women, like the goats outside, were tethered together by their collars so that they could go no farther than two feet apart. Also, much like the goats, they looked hungry. Much like the dancers, the patrons seemed to be mostly disinterested, more concerned with feeding their own bellies than watching this lackluster floor show.

Tables were dotted across the room, twelve in all, and customers from all walks, young and old, sat at them, eating and drinking, passing the evening. These were traveling men, like Ryan and his companions, just passing through on their way to pastures new. The group from the caravan had taken up a couple of larger tables to the right of the room; twelve of them in total, plus the baby. They were tending to the wounded mother and her child, bandaging the old man’s bloodied arm. The mother had a wadded bandage across her throat now, but apart from looking pale with shock, she seemed to be all right. With Ryan busy checking on Krysty’s well-being, J.B. touched his index finger to the brim of his hat in acknowledgment as he passed the group. One of them, a man in his fifties with a shaved scalp and peppering of white stubble on his chin, nodded and offered a few words of thanks, but he was drowned out by the poorly tuned piano, and, regardless, J.B. hadn’t bothered to stop and listen. The man with the shaved scalp continued to watch the companions as they made their way toward the main service counter.

A large mirror lined the far wall, overlooking a long countertop that served as bar and trading area. The counter was crowded with things for sale—fur pelts and ammunition, religious symbols and homemade lucky mascots, a writhing box of maggots that was labeled as “live bayt”—all of it presided over by a fat man sitting on a high stool, picking at his teeth with a splinter of wood. The whole lot probably didn’t amount to much of value, even out here in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee, and it was obvious that the trading post’s main trade was in food, drink and the scrawny excuse for gaudies that were currently dancing for the passing trade.

In one corner of the room, at the end of the long countertop, stood a lean-looking, skinny girl of maybe fourteen, stirring a big metal ladle in a steaming pot as big as a bathtub. She wore her dark hair long, and her arms were bare where the burgundy sleeveless T-shirt she wore didn’t cover them. Scars were pitted down her arms, from burns and perhaps blades, it was hard to tell. An open fire cracked and spit beneath the huge pot, casting its fractious, flickering light across the room.

“Well.” Doc clapped his hands together, looking at his companions with a bright smile on his face. “Who’s up for some dinner?” He turned to Krysty, thinking that, after drawing upon the Gaia power, she would be ravenous.

The companions looked at Doc as he stroked his chin unconsciously and his eyes lost focus, seemingly in deep thought. “Though with our journeying of late, mayhap it is lunch. It can get so frightfully confusing when one is ever hopping about from place to place.”

Mildred stepped over and took the older man’s elbow, smiling up into his clear, blue eyes. “Let’s break our fast, you old fool,” she said affectionately.

Doc nodded, smiling agreeably. “Breakfast it is,” he announced before leading the way over to the countertop where the fat man continued picking at his teeth.

As Doc, Mildred and Jak stepped up to the counter, the remaining companions headed for an empty table on the farthest side of the room from the door. The table allowed a good view of the whole room, and J.B. pushed one of the wooden chairs far back until it was pressed against the wall. Once it was, he sat down on it, the brim of his fedora low as he silently scanned the room. Exhausted, Krysty wearily sat beside him while Ryan took a seat facing him, his chair at an angle so that he might turn easily if he was required to face the room.

The patrons seemed a mismatched bunch. Some were quite clearly local farmhands, others just traveling through. There was a sense of hostility, all too familiar in the Deathlands, but it came from the raucous conversations and lewd floor show more than any specific antagonism between parties.

“Lots of ordnance in here,” J.B. said quietly, “not all of it on show.”

Beside the Armorer, Krysty was beginning to regain her usual healthy appearance, the color returning to her cheeks. Her green eyes were sifting through the weapons she could see tucked beneath the tabletops. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she decided, telling of her findings in a low mutter. “Guy left of the door looks like he has a flamer maybe.”

“No,” J.B. corrected her. “That’s a crop duster, sprays pesticide.”

With his back to the room, Ryan glanced up at the mirror behind the bar, searching for the man in question. “Would it work as a weapon?” he queried.

“Depends what’s in it,” the Armorer admitted. “A face full of bug spray could blind you, burn the skin off your face, or worse.”

“What’s worse than that?” Krysty asked, furrowing her brow.

“Put some industrial-strength shit in there, and you’d be tripping the rest of your short life, see the flesh peeling from your skull whether it was really happening or not,” J.B. explained disinterestedly, his eyes still scanning the room.

At the counter, Doc was addressing the proprietor in his rich, sonorous voice. “Your sign outside promises good eating, sir,” he began, “perhaps you would care to explain what delicacies you have to offer to a band of weary—and hungry—travelers?”

Behind the counter the round man’s tiny eyes widened at Doc’s elaborately phrased request, and he worked his spike of wood with his fingers, pulling something from his teeth, before he spoke. “We got meat,” he said, gesturing to the alcove where the teenage girl was stirring at her large pot, “fresh today and stewed up all nice and tender. That do you an’ your trav’lin’ buds?”

Doc glanced across to the girl in the alcove and nodded, scenting the air in an effort to determine what meat it was. “It most assuredly would,” Doc told the barman. “We would like six bowls of your finest stew. It smells delicious,” he added, turning to check for the approval of his companions.

The overweight barman went over to talk to the rake-thin girl at the bathtub-size cooking pot, and when Doc turned back, he was returning to his post as the girl began reaching for bowls and wiping each with a cloth before placing them in turn on the table beside her. As Doc checked through his pockets for some jack or spare ammunition that might serve as currency—nothing was more valuable in the Deathlands than a live round—the bartender gestured for him to come closer. Leaning forward, Doc bent close to the bar, looking at the bartender curiously as the fat man spoke.

“What’s up with whitey there?” the barman asked, not looking at Jak Lauren. “He a mutie? We don’t much like serving their kind in here. Not for me, y’understand, just that the locals get sore about it and it’s liable to bring trouble.”

“No,” Doc said, shaking his head, “Jak’s as normal as you or I.” Doc considered explaining the nature of albinism but thought better of it. “He just stays out of the sun, that’s all,” Doc finished somewhat lamely.

Which wasn’t to say that they didn’t have a mutie among their band. Few people picked up on Krysty’s mutations, despite her prehensile hair being on show for all the world to see. Doc smiled to himself. In two hundred years, humankind hadn’t changed so very much. People would look past a lot if you were that rare and wonderful combination of facets—tall, striking and a woman.

The man behind the counter told Doc to find a table and his daughter would bring the meals over. As the three companions shuffled past the group from the caravan, one of its crew called to them. The companions turned, and Mildred accompanied Doc as he strode a few paces to join the group. Wary, Jak watched for a moment before slipping through the other patrons and making his way across the room to join Ryan’s table.

A sturdy-looking man addressed Doc as he walked closer, standing up to grasp his hand in a firm, friendly grip. The man looked to be in his fifties, with thinning white hair atop a tanned face and a patchy white beard on his chin. He looked to Doc like a farmer, a man used to working outside.

“You were out there with those what saved us,” the man said, smiling gratefully. “You an’ your friends took some risks there, and we’re mighty grateful.”

“You are very welcome,” Doc said agreeably, as he disengaged his hand from the man’s firm grip.

“My name’s Jeremiah. Jeremiah Croxton,” the man told Doc, gesturing to a free seat at the table. “Why don’t you come sit with us, Mr….?”

“Tanner,” Doc replied automatically.

“Mr. Tanner,” Croxton continued, looking around the shack for other seats. “We would be most honored, if you would come eat with us, both you an’ your friends.” As he spoke, several of his party stood, shuffling their seats along to make more room at their tables.

Doc smiled again. “That is very gracious of you, Mr. Croxton, but we would not wish to intrude.”

“�Intrude’ nonsense,” the old farmer dismissed with a hearty laugh. “I thinks we may just have us something to interest you, Mr. Tanner. I couldn’t speak for your friends there, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be glad you loaned me your ear for the two minutes or so it will take.”

Intrigued, Doc looked across the table at its inhabitants as Croxton introduced himself to Mildred. The group seemed normal enough, mostly older folks, tired-looking with that hard, leathery skin that suggested long hours toiling in the sun. There were two youngsters among them, besides the wounded baby. One was a girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, sylphlike with just a little puppy fat on her pretty face, long, ash-blond hair cascading down her back. Across from her, his eyes on the door, sat a young man of perhaps twenty, hair the same color as the girl’s and with a light dusting of beard on his chin. He seemed hungry to Doc, predatory eyes scanning the room and the door, a bow and quiver of arrows resting at his feet. The next in age was the baby’s mother, who appeared to be perhaps forty years old—it was hard to tell as she was clearly in shock from the attack. A dark-skinned woman with graying hair was gently cleaning the wound at the woman’s neck using a rag dipped in a bowl of water. The water held the pinkish tint of diluted blood.

“Well,” Doc decided, “perhaps just for a moment.”

Beside him, Mildred touched Doc’s sleeve to get his attention. “Doc, I think our dinner is almost ready,” she said, giving him a significant look. Mildred’s time in the Deathlands had taught her that strangers, however kindly they appeared, were almost never to be trusted.

His back to the farmer and his people, Doc gave a sharp nod and mouthed, “It’s fine,” before he spoke aloud. “Perhaps you would alert me when our waitress arrives with our meals, Mildred,” he said.

Mildred rolled her eyes, hoping that Doc knew what he was getting involved in, then walked across the hard wooden floor to speak to Ryan and wait for the serving girl.

As Mildred strode away, a chair next to Croxton was vacated at the table and Doc was invited to join the group. The empty chair was also beside the blonde girl, and Doc offered her a polite bow, little more than a courteous nod, before he sat. She giggled just a little, covering her mouth with her hand as a blush rose across her cheeks. The girl smelled sweet and musky, delicately scented with woman’s perfume. Her youth and long blond hair reminded Doc of another girl, one he had been close to not so very long ago. A treasure of a girl called Lori Quint, who, like everything else in the Deathlands, had been tainted and spoiled and ultimately killed by the unforgiving world around her. Doc pushed Lori’s bittersweet memory aside, as he realized that the bearded farmer, Croxton, was talking.

“The reason I asked that you join us, Mr. Tanner,” Croxton was saying, “is that I do believe we have a little proposition that may be of interest to you.”

Doc inclined his head, inviting the man to continue.

“You see Daisy there,” Croxton said, indicating the fresh-faced, blond-haired teenager. “Pretty as a picture, am I right?”

Nodding, Doc began to feel slightly uncomfortable, concerned that he had come across yet another exercise in an old man whoring his children. “I would say so, certainly,” he replied, amiably enough.

“Would you like to guess how old she is?” Croxton asked, his blue eyes shining, his tongue running across his teeth as a playful smile appeared on his lips. It was the smile of a gambler, someone used to fooling people, and to judging them from their body language.

Shaking his head, Doc pushed his chair back and began to stand. “I am sorry,” he said, “I am really not interested in what I believe you are offering, kind though that offer most certainly is…”

The girl—Daisy—spoke, her voice rich like treacle. “I’m seventy-an’-six, Mr. Tanner,” she said.

Caught halfway between standing and sitting, Doc almost fell over. He reached out and grasped the side of the table before him as his chair crashed to the floor.

“Seventy—” Doc began, the words choked in his suddenly dry throat.

Daisy shrugged her bony, girl’s shoulders and blew Doc a kiss. “I look good on it though, don’t I, sir?”




Chapter Three


“Do you remember what it was like to be young, Mr. Tanner?” Daisy asked, as Doc regained his composure and sank into the chair beside her.

Her voice was low, intimate, with a sweet, rich quality like molasses. Her eyes, a shade of blue so light they appeared almost white, peered at him, the tiniest creases appearing at their edges where she smiled. Her mouth was smiling, too. Her wide, flawless teeth were a dazzling shade of white even in the indifferent, gloomy light. Looking at that friendly, inquisitive smile, Doc felt himself drawn to the girl. There was an intimacy here, created by her soft voice, by the half-light of the room, by the wall of noise all around them as other people continued with their meals and conversations, oblivious to the two of them sitting there discussing the nature of youth.

Realizing that the pretty young girl was waiting for him to answer, Doc nodded slowly. “Oh, I remember,” he intoned. “Long summer days, running simply because you could, running until you fell down with giddiness.”

Doc’s head was still nodding, a smile on his lips, as he looked back at Daisy. He would guess that she was perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Her skin was smooth, crinkles forming and disappearing as she flashed that wonderful, dazzling smile at him, the flesh on her cheeks a ruddy pink in the flickering light from the cook’s fire. He looked at her more closely, trying to see the old woman that she had once been. Her face was round, as though she was predisposed to smile for any occasion, a little chubby around the rounded cheeks, dimples appearing as she smiled. She was pretty, but not beautiful. It was the prettiness of youth, Doc realized, of innocence, the way that only a child could be pretty.

Daisy’s hair was long, falling past her shoulders and ending halfway down her back, a cascading wave of silvery-blond. It was fine hair, wispy and prone to tangle, and she would shift the tangled bangs out of her eyes as she spoke, an unconscious movement, long practiced and harboring no sign of irritation.

As Doc watched the girl, Daisy continued to smile at him. “That’s not it,” she said in that slow drawl that didn’t seem to quite form the hard edges of the words, instead mushing them into a flowing sound, like a song. “That’s—what you are talking about—that’s what you think youth was, because you don’t really remember it. You think it was this thing that was all about being a kid, but that’s nothing like what being young is. That thing that you described, that’s what I thought it was before I was—” She stopped, her eyes wandering as though searching for the rest of the sentence.

“Changed?” Doc suggested after a moment’s pause.

“Youngered,” the girl responded. “Like the way I used to get older, so I guess I got youngered by the pool. That make sense to you, Mr. Tanner? You seem like a man o’ learning, is all.”

Slowly, Doc nodded once again, intrigued despite himself. “Youngered it is,” he replied with a smile.

Daisy glanced up for a moment, and Doc followed her glance. She was looking across the table to where Jeremiah Croxton, the aging farmer, sat. He had spread out an old, dog-eared map across the table and was deep in conversation with the person sitting to his right, another outdoors type. When he saw Daisy and Doc looking at him he smiled in acknowledgment before getting back to his cartographical calculations.

When Doc turned back to her, the blonde girl was holding her hand up before his face, palm toward him, fingers upthrust. “Look at my hand, Mr. Tanner,” she said. “Go ’head, it won’t bite none.”

Doc peered at the girl’s pink hand, wondering at the strange request.

“You can touch it, if you want,” she told him encouragingly.

Doc looked at her quizzically. “What am I looking at?” he asked.

“The scars,” Daisy told him, her lips upturned in a smile. “There’s no scars there, not now. I worked the fields for almost sixty years with my father and then with my better half, the lazy good-for-nothing. But the scars have healed, they disappeared. You wouldn’t know that they was ever there.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Doc agreed, wondering what else he could say, suddenly aware of his own hands, old and wrinkled.

“That’s being young, Mr. Tanner,” Daisy said with certainty. “No scars, no shooting pains deep in your bones fucking with you when the first frost comes. Not running about in the summer, that’s just some—I dunno—song words, troubadour crap. This is being young, Mr. Tanner—” she flexed her fingers before him “—this right here.”

Doc found his eyes following Daisy’s slim hand as she reached for the glass that sat before her on the wooden table. Behind her, and all around, the other members of the wag train were laughing, drinking and eating, watching the tawdry floor show, enjoying themselves.

Daisy took a drink from her glass and Doc was amused to see that it was a swig, a gulp, not the delicate ladylike operation that one might associate with an adult. “You taste this?” Daisy asked, holding the glass out to Doc.

Doc shook his head, waving away the proffered glass. “That’s very kind,” he stated, “but I should really be getting back to my friends.”

“You should taste it,” Daisy encouraged. “Just a little nip. Won’t hurt you none. It hasn’t chilled me,” she said.

Doc took the glass from her and sniffed at its contents. It smelled of sweetness, some blended fruit concoction. Warily, he held the rim of the glass against his lips and tipped it until a tiny dribble of liquid washed past his teeth and into his mouth. “It’s nice,” he assured Daisy, passing the glass back into her waiting hand. “What is it?”

Daisy’s baby blue eyes were watching him intensely, and the fire of challenge colored her words. “You tell me,” she drawled.

“It tastes like…” Doc began thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. Perhaps cantaloupe? Cantaloupe and some spices perhaps?”

As though performing a show, Daisy placed the glass against her lips, all the while watching Doc, her eyes locked on his. Then she closed her eyes and tipped her head back to drink, her neck arching into a beautiful, pale curve of flawless flesh. As Doc watched, Daisy drank the whole glass, her throat bobbing just a little as she swallowed the last of it. Finally, her eyes popped open—still locked on Doc’s—and, licking her lips, she placed the empty glass back down on the table. “Cantaloupe, raspberry, a hint of berry to add tartness,” she told Doc, “and the spice you could taste—that’s the tiniest fleck of cinnamon.”

Doc looked mystified by this performance. “A tasty concoction,” he assured her when it seemed that she was waiting for him to say something.

Daisy leaned forward, bringing her lips close to Doc’s, speaking low despite the hubbub all around them. “That’s what I tasted, Mr. Tanner,” she whispered. “I could tell each of those wonderful tastes in my mouth, savor every last drop. And that’s what it is to be young.”

The girl pulled away, and turned to speak to the person on the other side of her—a man in his midfifties with the haunted expression of a professional chiller. “You mind, Charlie?” she asked. After a moment, the man—Charlie—got up and made his way to the bar counter to order more drinks.

When Daisy turned back to Doc, who was still puzzling over the meaning of her display, she spoke in a less intense manner, friendly and buoyant once more. “You get old,” she explained, “and things die. Parts of you die. Your taste, your hearin’, your eyes, your sense of smell. You lose things, senses, and you don’t never even notice. Because it takes such a long time to happen, you don’t never see it till it’s too late. You go back, you get youngered and it all comes back, Mr. Tanner. It all comes back and you wonder how you ever managed without it, like some cripple who can’t even dress himself. Those stories about being superhuman—they’re not stories. That’s what it is to be young. The longer you live, the less alive you are.”

Doc looked at her, this simple farming girl, old yet young, wondering at her words, marveling at them.

“Giddy,” Daisy continued, “running in the summer until you fall down—that’s not it at all. You just got too old to remember what it’s really like, is all.”

Doc nodded thoughtfully. “I remember now,” he said, “or, at least, I begin to.”

He sat there, lost in his thoughts as Daisy wrapped her delicate fingers over the new glass of fruit punch that had been brought over by the man with the haunted expression. Jeremiah Croxton leaned across to Doc, tapping him gently just below the shoulder. Doc glanced up, and seemed surprised for a second to find himself looking at the man.

“Mr. Tanner,” Croxton began, “I would like to discuss a proposition that I feel would be of mutual benefit.”

Turning to the old farmer, Doc listened intently to the man’s words.




Chapter Four


J.B. peered over Ryan’s shoulder at the pair of wide tables across the other side of the room, where Doc was held in discussion with the people from the convoy. “What the heck is Doc up to?” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

Mildred was just walking across the room to join Ryan and the others, her brow wrinkled with concern. Ryan peered up as her shadow fell across their table. “What’s happening, Mildred?” he asked.

Still standing, Mildred leaned close, keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard, even in spite of the clashing chords emanating from the piano. “Those travelers we helped out invited us all over to offer a few words of gratitude,” she explained.

“Tell them thanks,” J.B. growled.

“The spokesman,” Mildred continued, “that old boy you see there, he says he has a proposition that may interest Doc. Perhaps the rest of us, too.”

Ryan looked nonplussed. “Which is?”

“Search me,” Mildred said lightly. “Seems he wanted to run it by Doc first.”

“What’s your impression?” Ryan asked.

“They seem normal enough,” Mildred stated. “Mostly old folks. Couple of young ones, too, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Krysty was scanning the strangers from her position against the wall. “They’re only lightly armed,” she observed. “Real lightly for traveling folks. Kind of stupe.”

Sitting beside Ryan, Jak nodded. “Not travelers,” he said. “Farmers. Smell it.”

J.B. nodded once in agreement. “Jak’s right, those folks don’t look much used to hard road trekkin’. Probably why they got caught short against those mutie hounds outside.”

Shortly after Mildred had taken her seat, Doc strode to the table, followed by the thin serving girl with the burn scars along her arms. The girl was balancing four steaming bowls on a tray, and she smiled and shook her head as Doc kindly offered her a hand.

The old man took his seat as the girl set the bowls in front of the companions and began placing mismatched cutlery before them. “I’ll be back in a second with the others,” she drawled, curtsying briefly before she went back to her cooking alcove.

As the serving girl walked away, Doc related his conversation with Jeremiah Croxton to the companions. “They were all tremendously impressed with—and grateful for—our assistance outside,” Doc explained, “and Mr. Croxton has asked if we might avail our services for the duration of their journey.”

“As sec men, you mean?” Ryan asked.

Doc nodded, idly brushing a hand through his white hair as the serving girl returned with two more bowls of the aromatic stew. “Thank you, my dear,” Doc said to the girl. The bowls steamed as she set them down on the table before Doc and Ryan.

“If ya’s need anything else,” the girl said, “j’st holler an’ I’ll come right over.”

Jak was already working a spoon through the thick gravy in his bowl, and he looked up at the girl with his unearthly smile. “Good,” he said. “Meat’s good.”

Disconcerted, the girl thanked Jak and the others before scurrying back to her nook at the side of the bar. She stood there, her eyes on the strange young albino, watching him warily.

“What sort of meat is it, Jak?” Krysty asked as she pushed the contents of the bowl before her around with a fork.

Jak chewed for a moment, working the spiced meat around his palate. “Goat,” he decided, grinning contentedly.

Once the companions had started on their own bowls of stew, Doc continued relating Croxton’s request. “They have got a two-day journey ahead of them,” he said, “or so Croxton thinks. They have been on the road over a day, hard going, too, I should think.”

Ryan peered up from the contents of his bowl. “Where are they heading, Doc? Did he say?”

“A little ville called Baby,” Doc said.

Ryan’s eye flicked across the table to J.B. the custodian of the group’s maps and navigation equipment. “Heard of it, J.B.?”

After a few seconds thought, the Armorer shook his head. “Name like that would surely stick in my craw tighter than dynamite in a pesthole,” he said. “New villes are popping up and falling down all the time, Ryan. Just ’cause I haven’t heard of it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Ryan nodded. “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he agreed, before turning his attention back to Doc as the old man picked his way carefully through his stew with a bent-handled spoon. “So what’s your angle on this, Doc? They putting up a lot of jack?”

“No,” Doc said between mouthfuls, shaking his head. “Something far more interesting than money. They’re promising youth.”

“Youth?” The word came from three people at once, as Mildred, Krysty and Ryan all uttered it with incredulity.

“The pretty little blonde girl over on the left-hand side of the table there…?” Doc said, looking up but not pointing. “Says she’s seventy-six years old. Came out of Babyville to spread the word. Seems they have the secret of eternal youth there.”

J.B. barked a short laugh at Doc’s words. “And you believe this horseshit they’re feeding you?”

Doc looked at the glistening sheen of grease on top his half-full bowl before slowly replying in a considered, deliberate voice. “I neither believe nor disbelieve, my dear John Barrymore. My natural inclination is to disbelieve, of course, for such a thing would seem fanciful, not to say impossible. But the old fables are full of youth-giving potions, immortals and the rejuvenating effects of such-and-such mixture of herbs. The fountain of eternal youth may very well be a story, but might we suppose that it could have been rooted in fact?”

J.B. shook his head in disbelief, while Ryan and the others sat considering the white-haired man’s words.

Krysty was the one who finally broke the silence. “We have seen some mighty strange things in our travels,” she said, “most of them not a blamed bit of use to anyone. Who’s to say that Doc’s youth fountain doesn’t actually exist somewhere?”

“It’s impossible,” J.B. observed. “Doc just said so himself.”

“Implausible, perhaps,” Mildred said, “but not impossible. Back in the days before skydark there were drugs, antiaging creams, hormonal injections, numerous ways to make people look and feel younger. In my day there was a lot of emphasis on appearance and youth.”

“But a girl,” Ryan said in a low voice, “of, what, sixteen saying she’s really seventy-something?”

“There are chemicals in the atmosphere,” Mildred considered, warming to her subject, “that can strip a man to his bones in a shower of rain. You don’t realize how upside down the world is right now, because it’s all you’ve ever known, Ryan. And Krysty’s right. We have seen an awful lot that is more unbelievable than what Doc’s friends have described to him.”

A moment passed in silence as the companions considered Mildred’s words. She was talking about a world they had never known, a world they could scarcely imagine. But they knew that she was also an educated woman, a trained doctor with a mind that was attuned to scientific inquiry, not flights of fantasy.

Pushing thick gravy around her bowl, Krysty spoke thoughtfully, her words slow and deliberate. “There are plants, too, that make people healthier,” she said. Krysty’s knowledge concerning the properties of plant life was almost encyclopedic, although she rarely had cause to call upon it. “Isn’t being healthier really just another type of being young?” she asked.

Several of the group around the table muttered their agreement, but to Ryan’s ears Krysty sounded like she was trying to convince herself; he knew her so well.

Doc looked earnestly around the table at his companions. “The usual fee for entering Baby is much of an individual’s worldly possessions, I am told. If we were to go there in the capacity of bodyguards, Mr. Croxton and his people would vouch for us, perhaps allowing us indulgence in the operation for free.”

“Which would still be too damn high a price,” J.B. grumbled.

Doc turned to the Armorer, rising anger turning his face a darker shade. “Might I enquire, John Barrymore, how old you are? Might I ask how long you have lived in that body?”

J.B. looked at Doc, taken aback by his question.

“Is it perhaps forty years, mayhap forty-five?” Doc continued. “Forty years of bones forming and hair and nails growing, of skin tautening and cracking and repairing? Of eyes growing slowly dim behind your spectacle frames?”

J.B. looked emotionless as he replied, “Hurry up and pull the trigger, Doc.”

“What you see before you, my friend,” Doc said, “is a thirty-year-old man, give or take a few summers. Yet, I am stuck in this creaking set of limbs because some morally repugnant scientific scrutinizer decided it would be beneficial to shunt a man through time, to shunt me through time. I lost my dear wife and my two sweet children, and everything that meant anything to me, and those wounds, I assure you, will never heal. But this body, this old fool I see every time I look in the mirror to shave his white whiskers from his wrinkled chin—this is something I was cursed with to make that cruel joke all the more bitter.”

“Doc—” Ryan began, but the old man held up his hand to halt him.

“Allow an old man time to gather his thoughts, if you would,” Doc said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Oftentimes have I dreamed of returning to my home, to hold my dear Emily, Rachel and Jolyon once more, and every time I have been there in my mind’s eye, it has been in this wretched old man’s frame. It has been something I have resigned myself to, something I believed could never be changed.

“This opportunity,” Doc continued, “however slight it may be, is a fleeting glimpse of something I thought I could never have. Something that was stolen from me most cruelly.”

J.B. leaned close, looking Doc square in the eye. “And if it turns out to be a bust, do I get to say �I told you so’?” he asked, the trace of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

Doc felt his rage subside and he glanced at his other companions before meeting J.B.’s fierce stare once more. “If it turns out to be a bust, John Barrymore, I will royally insist that you do.”

Ryan turned, casting his single-eyed gaze from one companion to the next, making sure that everyone had said their piece. Finally he turned his blue-eyed gaze on Doc and offered him a single, curt nod. “Then it’s decided,” he said.

For several more minutes, the companions ate the goat stew, joking a little to ease their own tension, reminiscing over old victories and occasional, temporary defeats. Once they had finished their meal, Ryan pushed his chair back from the table and, with the lanky Doc at his side, strode across the wide room to where the caravaners were enjoying drinks and the hospitality of the overweight bartender. Ryan left his lengthy Steyr rifle with Krysty, and she placed it beneath the table, out of sight. The two chained girls were still dancing on stage, swaying to the sound of the piano like somnambulists. Ryan ignored them as he walked past, his one keen eye focused on the group of travelers as they continued their raucous discussions. Doc looked at the dancing girls, feeling a sick sense at the pit of his just-fed stomach at the way their ribs pushed against the skin beneath their nearly naked breasts.

The old man that Doc had pointed out as their leader, Jeremiah Croxton, was talking to a couple who had entered the building with a younger man—they were at least sixty, and he had almost certainly seen his fortieth birthday. The barman, who had been speaking with the group of travelers, looked up at the newcomers’ approach. A moment later, once the other three had left, Ryan leaned down to speak with Jeremiah Croxton.

“I hear you’re in the market for some traveling sec for the next two days,” Ryan began. His glance flicked around the table, taking in the dozen patrons that sat there. The youngish woman who had been attacked had wrapped a tourniquet around her throat, and looked to be numbing any lasting pain with a pathological intake of alcohol. Her baby was snuffling in sleep, doubtless having imbibed a nip of brandy to keep it from waking. The older man who had been attacked by another wolf had a bloody gash across his arm, but, cleaned up, the wound looked superficial and he seemed to be having fun in a lively conversation with a middle-aged gaudy slut wearing a none-too-flattering dress with a low neckline that she seemed to be struggling to artistically flail out of. A couple of the others at the table had rudimentary weapons, a remade revolver here, a single-shot rifle there. They appeared companionable enough, seemed happy to enjoy the delights that the trading post offered with food, drink and, for one bald and wrinkled old man at the far side of the table, the company of the awkward girl who had served Ryan and his companions dinner. The girl looked uncomfortable as she endured the old man’s attention.

Croxton looked at Ryan for a moment before he spoke, assessing the man’s wide-shouldered frame, the wide chest beneath his shirt. “Yes, that we are,” he said finally. “Our little escapade with the wolf pack out there was a surprise, an’ I ain’t so sure we’d have coped without your timely intervention. Showed us that mebbe we could do with a little extra muscle, if you are interested in that line of work.”

Ryan nodded. “Name’s Ryan,” he said as Jeremiah shook his proffered hand, “and you’ve met Doc here already.”

“That I have,” the old farmer acknowledged, looking down at Ryan’s hand as he released his grip. “You have a few old scars showing there, if I may be so bold,” he said.

“That comes with the territory,” Ryan said. “When do you plan on setting off?”

“We’ll bed down here,” Croxton said in his warm, friendly voice, “and look to move out a little after dawn. Will that suit you and your crew?”

“We’ll be ready,” Ryan assured him. “We’ll meet you by your wags at dawn.”

“Might be one extra from what you saw,” Croxton added. “Been spreading the word a little.”

Ryan nodded. “We can protect six if need be. Beyond that, we may need to consider adopting another strategy before we set off.”

The farmer thanked Ryan and Doc, and the two companions made their way back to their table.

“First impression?” J.B. asked as Ryan took his seat.

“Underarmed, naive and frightened as hell,” Ryan said. “As long as we keep them in line they won’t bring any trouble down on us.”

Jak’s ruby eyes flashed eerily in the flickering light of the fire. “Trouble come,” he assured Ryan and the others. “Always do.”



DAWN ARRIVED WITH A whimper, the sun struggling over the easterly horizon as dark, bloated clouds full of rain and chem did their best to stifle its rays.

Ryan and his companions waited in the vicinity of the parked wags, weapons on show as much for effect as protection. They had spent the night sharing three rooms in an old shack that doubled as an inn, just a little way along the road from the so-called trading post. Ryan had relished that brief opportunity to be alone with Krysty in a real bed, reaffirming their devotion to one another. Now, the companions were rested and renewed.

Before leaving the trading post the night before, J.B. had swapped some spare ammunition he had found in the redoubt—of a gauge that didn’t fit any of the companions’ weapons—for a pack of locally made, hand-rolled cigars. The pack itself was constructed of thin balsa wood, glued together with a little hinge mechanism in the top, and the Armorer admired the craftsmanship as he pulled one of the stubby, brown cigars from it, intending to have a quick smoke before Mildred spotted him.

Standing beside him, Doc watched the man light the cigar with a butane lighter, inhaling deeply until the tip glowed orange. J.B. spluttered as he tasted the heavy smoke for the first time, pulling the brown cigar from his teeth and glaring at it. He felt somewhat light-headed, as it had been a while since his last smoke.

“’Tis a bracing morning, John Barrymore,” Doc said as the Armorer took his second drag on the homemade cigar.

J.B. breathed thick smoke from his mouth, wisps coming from his nostrils. “Nothing a little fire in your lungs won’t stave off,” he assured the old man. J.B. offered Doc a cigar, but he politely declined.

As they continued waiting for the caravan travelers, J.B. began checking the wags, peering at their wheel housings and running his fingers along rust spots he found, making sure that the wags would stand up to the continued abuse of hard travel.

Across from the wags, Mildred leaned against the side of a wooden shack, checking the contents of her olive-colored satchel while Jak crouched on the curb, sharpening the leaf-shaped blade of one of his throwing knives, his Colt Python resting on the sidewalk beside him, just inches from his busy hands.

“Shit, I’m running out of supplies,” Mildred muttered to herself.

Jak looked up at her, a querulous expression on his stark, ghostlike face. “Meds?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Mildred replied. “I don’t know about the secret of eternal youth, but if this Babyville has a stash of ibuprofen and acetaminophen it will be a miracle worth visiting.”

Jak just smiled, choosing to keep his wisdom to himself.

Standing in the lee of one of the tall truck cabs, Krysty was telling Ryan a tale from her days as a child in Harmony. Ryan had heard the story before, but marveled at the way that Krysty related it, the idyllic, carefree existence she had had in her early life in contrast to his own, more formal upbringing, in Front Royal as the son of a baron. Midstory, Krysty inclined her head subtly and, in a low tone, informed Ryan, “They’re here.”

Ryan looked up, and saw Jeremiah Croxton leading his mismatched crew—now grown from twelve to fifteen—into the sunlight from the weather-beaten shack that served as an inn for travelers.

The bearded old farmer looked satisfied as he approached the one-eyed man. “Bright an early as promised, sir,” he bellowed. “I like to see good timekeeping in a man. Shows a determined spirit, sure as hell.”

“Said we’d be here at dawn,” Ryan reminded the man. “You’ll find me and my people keep our word, Croxton.”

“I am sure you do.” Croxton laughed. “Now, we got us five wags and there are six of you. How you see splitting this? I’m seeing a man on every wag.” He turned his gaze to Krysty for a moment. “No offense, ma’am.”

“None taken,” Krysty assured him, the rising wind catching her long hair and blowing it across her face for a moment before she swept it back with her hand.

“You have room for us scattered like that?” Ryan asked.

As Ryan spoke, J.B. sauntered over to join the discussion, the cigar wedged in his mouth. “He’s right,” J.B. added, talking around the stub of cigar. “Some of these wags look pretty worn.”

Croxton nodded favorably, smiling at the Armorer. “The wags’ll hold up, and we’ll make room,” he assured them. “We’ll be moving out in ten minutes. You okay with that?”

Ryan nodded. “The sooner the better.”

Croxton looked thoughtfully at Ryan, picking his words with care. “It’s mighty gen’rous of you to accompany us like this,” he said. “We’re just sod busters. No real money worth speaking of, nothing much of value. Can’t pay you for what you’re doing.”

Ryan remained emotionless as he listened to the man relieve his conscience.

“But mebbe you’ll find something you need in Baby, too, right, Mr. Cawdor?” the farmer continued. “I don’t rightly know what the healin’ properties of this spring are, but mebbe it’ll be able to fix your scars. Not so sure it can replace that there something what you have lost.”

Ryan realized that the round-faced farmer was looking not at him but at the leather eye patch he wore over the empty socket of his left eye. “I’m not much of a believer in miracles,” Ryan told Croxton shortly. “I’ve seen too much horror with the one eye I have.”

“Then what you are doing is that much more brave, sir,” Croxton said gratefully, before turning to organize his own people.

Shaking his head, J.B. turned to Ryan. “This whole setup stinks worse than a gaudy on threesome-special day,” he muttered.

Ryan agreed, but all he said was, “Doc’s been a good friend to all of us.” It served to remind J.B. of where their loyalties had to lie.



RYAN HAD CONSIDERED how to distribute his people the night before, lying in bed with Krysty sleeping in his arms, his lone eye staring at the ceiling. Like J.B., he was skeptical of the miracles that Babyville promised. However, he held a great deal of respect for Doc, and he could see that this was a dream that the old man needed to follow. Indeed, Ryan suspected that Doc would have gone alone with the travelers, rather than miss the incredible opportunity that Croxton had presented.

Before dawn, Ryan had taken Mildred quietly aside while Doc busied himself with his morning ablutions.

“I trust all of you,” Ryan had said firmly, his voice low. “Couldn’t ask for better companions for the long road. But I know that a man can get to thinking and obsessing if he’s left too long on his own with too heavy a weight on his mind, and I don’t want that to happen to Doc.”

Mildred had nodded, understanding what Ryan was getting at.

“You keep an eye on him for me,” Ryan continued. “Make sure his head stays in the here-and-now. Okay?”

Mildred nodded again.

Doc came striding out of the inn’s bathroom at that point, his hair combed and his chin shaved. “Are we all ready to experience a miracle?” he asked cheerfully.

“Count me in on that, Doc,” Mildred replied.

Ryan just turned away, fidgeting with an ammo cartridge as he awaited the dawn rendezvous. At least Mildred was open-minded to Doc’s dreams, he thought. She wouldn’t rattle the old man without due cause.

The other crucial choices for Ryan were who would sit up front and who would protect the rear.

The Armorer took backstop, well-armed and mean-tempered enough to ensure that any attack from the travelers themselves could be averted or swiftly curtailed. It was always a risk traveling with strangers; people played a lot of tricks to get what they wanted out there in the middle of the Deathlands, where trust was in short supply. Still, it appeared that the convoy was only lightly armed and was what it appeared to be—a group of elderly farmers looking for the miracle two youngsters were promising.

Ryan had asked Jak to guard the front vehicle, despite his urge to take the position himself. Jak’s keen eyes and preternatural senses made him an ideal scout; he would pick up on things quicker and spot indicators that others in Ryan’s team might miss.




Chapter Five


In silence Jak observed everything through the windows of the lead wag. It was a six-wheeler truck rig, preskydark technology, and it belched foul black smoke into the atmosphere as it trudged along the wreckage of the old roads. The ancient vehicle had been patched up using items from numerous sources, including metal drain pipes and bottle glass. The open drain hole from a bathtub could be seen in the right-side door, where Jak rested his knee. Sometime in the distant past, the engine had been retrofitted to run on moonshine, though it grumbled at the effort of pulling the monstrous weight of the rig up any significant incline, mostly managing a top speed of no more than twenty mph and howling like a banshee the whole bastard time.

The driver, Jeremiah Croxton, kept his eyes firmly on the shattered roadway as the wag bumped over ruined blacktop, and the worn suspension offered little comfort as the vehicle thundered over each pothole and crevice. Beside him, resting against the far door, Jak watched the dry landscape pass by through the dirt-smeared side window, frequently peering ahead to see what was coming. After a while, Jak drew his blaster—a .357 Colt Python—and began taking it apart so as to oil its inner works using a finger-size bottle of oil he carried in his jacket.

From behind Jak, sitting in the cubbyhole in the rear of the cab, surrounded by what amounted to all of Croxton’s negligible belongings, the blond-haired Daisy peered over the back of Jak’s seat. She was watching Jak’s practiced, economical movements as he field-stripped his weapon.

“What ya doing?” Daisy asked, her languid voice close to his ear.

Jak ignored her, glancing ahead at the low rise that the broken road poured over, past the last of the emaciated wheat fields.

A half minute passed in silence before Daisy spoke again. “Hey, mister,” she drawled, “I asked what ya doing? You deaf as well as weird-looking? Don’t see much point in a deaf sec man.”

Jak turned to face her, his ruby eyes boring into hers. “Here guard, not jabber,” he told her.

At the steering wheel, Croxton guffawed. “Boy’s got a point, Daisy,” he said, not bothering to look behind him.

“I was just trying to make nice,” Daisy whined. “Thought a weirdo like him would ’preciate that.”

Oiling his blaster, Jak ignored her. But his mind was considering Daisy’s words carefully—not because they hurt, Jak was above such petty concerns, but because of the way in which she phrased them. It nagged at him that the girl had called him “mister.”



THE SECOND WAG IN THE convoy was similar to the first, a rusty old truck rig that had been converted to run on moonshine. Krysty had taken the shotgun seat next to a dark-skinned woman called Nisha Adams, who looked permanently tired. Nisha’s husband, Barry, a man in his midforties, with the tanned, leathery skin of someone used to working outside, drove the rig with an easygoing nonchalance, remarking on things that caught his attention at the roadside, keeping his hands in a four- and eight-o’clock grip on the rig’s large wheel.

Three other people shared the cab, sitting in the sleeping compartment behind the main seats—another older couple called Julius and Joanna Dougal, and the old farmer who had been attacked by one of the hounds outside the trading post and now wore a bandage across his wounded arm. The five of them seemed to get along well—they were old friends, full of anecdotes and not above teasing one another in a lighthearted way.

Krysty sat quietly, her green eyes watching the cracked strip of road and the surrounding landscape as they lumbered along, following Croxton’s rig at a steady pace.

“So, where are you from, long and tall?” Julius asked from the back of the cab.

Krysty turned and gave the man a brief smile. He was about fifty, dark-skinned and carrying a few extra pounds around his middle and on his jowls. Whatever he had farmed before he’d downed tools to go on this crazy quest for eternal youth, it had kept him strong and well-fed. “Name’s Krysty,” she began. “I come from a ville called Harmony. Have you heard of that?”

Julius looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “Can’t say I have, Krysty.”

“It’s in the past,” Krysty said with a shrug. “You folks come from a long way?”

“Couple of days on the road so far,” Joanna explained. Like Julius, she was a dark-skinned woman carrying a few extra pounds. She wore a machete at her hip, its blade notched here and there from use.

“Worth it though,” Julius added. “Imagine, being young again. You live in this hellhole so long and suddenly someone offers you a chance to be young all over again. Strong and healthy again. Can’t even imagine it, I’ll bet, young’un like you.”

Krysty laughed. “I grew up fine and strong, Julius,” she said, “but I still miss some of the things I used to be able to do.”

“Like what, child?” Joanna asked, encouraging Krysty to continue.

Krysty glanced back at the road through the windshield, her eyes scanning the back of the wag ahead and peering at the dead terrain all around. “Dreams,” she said wistfully. “I miss being able to dream the way I did when I was a little girl. That feeling of security that lets you dream just about anything.”

From the back of the rig, the old farmer, Paul Witterson, loosed a loud, braying laugh. “Ha. You’re still a little girl, sweetie,” he said. “Having curves in all the right places don’t change that.”

Krysty smiled, flattered by the old man’s observation. “Thanks for the kind compliment.”

“Compliment nothing,” Witterson stated. “Facts is facts, Red. Facts is facts.”

Gazing through the window to her right, Krysty wondered what the facts were about the spring of eternal life.



THE THIRD VEHICLE in the convoy was a broken-down, American-made four-wheel drive that had survived the nukecaust but not much else. It was patched together with mismatched doors and sheets of metal, and the roof wore the acne-scar evidence of acid raid erosion. The engine had been removed, and that space was used for additional storage, containing almost all of the occupants’ possessions. Despite displaying mutie musculature, the two weary horses that pulled the vehicle looked to be struggling with the weight.

Doc had taken the passenger seat beside the driver, a man in his middle fifties called Charles Torino, whose face was more scarred than the roof of his automobile. Mildred sat in the back, across from Doc, beside Mary Foster, checking the bandage that had been applied to the wound where her shoulder met her neck. A dark-haired woman in her late thirties, Mary was the woman who, along with her baby, had been snagged by the mutie wolf when the companions had first intervened. She was rocking the baby in her arms as Mildred dressed her wound, replacing the bandage.

“Ryan and J.B. think I am crazy, do they not?” Doc said, breaking the silence inside the vehicle.

Mildred looked up from her gentle work on the woman’s wounded neck. “No,” she replied, “don’t be silly.”

Doc’s smile was genuine as he answered. “Do not try to kid an old man, Mildred. I have known you too long. And I know what I saw in their eyes. They think I am out of my mind.”

“Well,” Mildred admitted, “no more than normal, I’m sure.”

Doc looked ponderously out of the missing windshield for a moment before he continued. “How about you, Doctor?” he prompted. “Do you think this old fool is crazy?”

Mildred cast a significant look at the other people in the automobile before she spoke. “Doc, I hardly think now’s the time to…” she began.

“It may be false hope,” he told her, “but you understand what would happen if I did not pursue it. I would not have been able to live with myself knowing that this opportunity may be out there.”

Mildred leaned forward and touched Doc’s shoulder reassuringly. “I know, Doc,” she said, “we all do. No one thinks you’re wrong or loopy. We just worry about you.”

The driver, Charles Torino, spoke in his hoarse, strained voice then, looking over his shoulder through the headrests to take in Mildred as well as Doc. “You folks think this is a wild-goose chase?” he asked.

Mildred shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounds pretty amazing. I guess we have doubts.”

Charles nodded, peering back at his mutie horses to see that they were still on the right track. “I seen it happen,” he said. “Old guy come through our ville two months ago, decrepit, looked like Old Father Time hisself limping along on that bad foot of his. He come and told us about this young-making spring he heard about out east. Said he was going looking for it. Six weeks later he came back.”

Mildred and Doc looked at the man, hanging on his every word.

“He was just a kid,” Charles said in his strained voice. “I mean, mebbe twenty years old, I dunno. Still had the limp he come to the ville with all them weeks before, but he looked young. Real young.”

“And it was the same man?” Mildred asked.

Charles nodded. “I’d swear to you it was. Mary?”

The younger woman holding the baby nodded solemnly. “Same eyes, same jawline,” she said. “S’funny, he looked kinda handsome as a young man.”

“Yet he still had his limp,” Doc wondered.

“Oh, the spring cured that, too,” Charles said with a throaty laugh. “Idiot was so busy dancing with joy he trod on a nail, went right through his boot. Put him pretty much back where he started at, I guess.”

Doc and Mildred both laughed at that, too, feeling a curious sense of relief.

“Me,” Charles continued, his eyes glazing over as he considered his words, “I’m hoping it can cure something a bit meaner than a broken foot.”

Mildred peered at the man and gently asked what he meant.

“I got me the black lung, miss,” Charles said with that throaty voice of his. “The big black crab inside me, making it a blamed chore to breathe.”

Cancer, Mildred realized. The man was looking for a cure for cancer.



RYAN WAS ACTING AS SEC MAN on the fourth vehicle in the convoy—a canvas-covered wooden wag with large wheels, pulled by four weary-looking horses. He sat at the front of the wag, his 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 ready at his hip, the Steyr rifle resting at his side. In silence he mentally reviewed his concerns. The whole quest seemed foolish, and yet he felt loyalty to Doc. The man deserved this chance, however unlikely it seemed.

And there was something else. There was a part of Ryan that, blast it all, wanted it to be true. The whole world, it seemed, had been turned against humankind, making every day a battle of desperate survival against astonishing odds. The plants, the wildlife, mutations and even the weather patterns had become poisonous, dangerous or downright lethal to man, and that was before considering the brutality that people inflicted on one another. To discover one bright hope, one good thing in the landscape of badness—that would be nothing short of a miracle.

Ryan and his companions had trekked a long time hoping for a miracle, seeking somewhere to settle, to call home. Babyville wasn’t it, Ryan was sure of that, but it just might rejuvenate the sense of hope that was sorely ebbing deep inside him.

Ryan’s companions in the wag were a family of three—the Cliffords—whose youngest was forty-three years old. A much younger man called Alec shared the back of the horse-drawn wag with the family, apparently shifting across from Croxton’s own wag. Alec was the blond-haired young man Ryan had noticed at the table in the trading post the night before. Alec looked similar to Daisy, the miracle girl who claimed to be over seventy years old, and Ryan suspected that they were brother and sister, or perhaps cousins. Their physical similarity nagged at him. Despite the layers of clothing that Alec wore for the trip, Ryan could see that the lad was rake-thin. Where Daisy still had puppy fat, Alec’s face was slender and bony, sharp planes and narrow, predatory eyes. He had the wispy beginnings of a beard on his chin, which he had clearly cultivated, though its ash-blond color made it seem insubstantial.

While the Clifford family members argued with one another in that way that families will, Alec remained silent, observing everything without comment. In that, Ryan saw something of Jak Lauren in the young man. Jak was a fine man to have on side, Ryan reminded himself, but he was a dangerous foe to turn one’s back on. Ryan wouldn’t be letting his guard down around this blond-haired young man.



J.B. HAD BEEN POSTED as sec man in the final wag in the train. This wag was a converted farm tractor, belching thick, tarry black smoke into the air behind it from two exhaust pipes as it gobbled up a sweet-smelling fuel made from sugar solution. A canvas shelter had been strung across the engine, and a boxed-in trailer had been tagged onto the rear. The Armorer sat in the trailer, watching the road behind them through the aft half-door. Sitting beside him, working his way through an illustrated instruction manual, was Vincent White. Vincent was a man in his midfifties, and he left his wife, Maude, to drive the sputtering vehicle. A naked lightbulb had been wired up into the side of the trailer, and was running off the engine to cast a dim, yellow light inside the box on wheels. He used a magnifying glass to read the print in the booklet he held. The man was desperately farsighted.

The road behind them bumped along, trailing off into the distance, the tragic fields with their skeletal plants sweeping away toward the horizon. J.B. watched the skies where a peppering of carrion birds followed the wag train. Were they simply being hopeful, he wondered, or did the convoy and its passengers have the mark of death upon them?



THE SEARING, NOONDAY SUN beat against the battered, rusting four-wheel drive, highlighting every streak and imperfection scarring the old, broken windshield. Doc sat comfortably in the passenger seat, watching the light playing across the cracks. Beside him, Charles Torino held the reins, urging his tired horses onward with occasional words of encouragement. They were somewhere still in Tennessee. It was scrubland here now, where once farms and thriving towns had been. Crows flew above, cawing discordantly to one another, swooping down to perch on the struggling saplings that had emerged from ashlike soil. When they landed, the soot-feathered crows seemed so heavy as to almost topple the scrawny, young saplings. The crows waited, watching the convoy of wags pass like a jury deliberating its verdict on the accused as they were paraded before them.

Doc closed his eyes, feeling the yellow warmth of the sun beating down through the cracked windshield, painting patterns on the inside of his eyelids. The heat was good, a simple delight harkening back to a more innocent age. Charles was saying something beside him, speaking to his horses, but Doc ignored him, tuning out the man’s throaty voice. Behind him, in the back of the wag, Mildred and Mary were talking about the wildlife, about favorite things, foods and beverages, meaningless stuff to pass the time. Baby Holly snuffled now and then in her sleep.

They were getting slowly closer to Babyville, and its mythical pool of rejuvenation.

Doc thought back to the conversation he had had with Ryan that morning, after he had finished shaving in the dingy bathroom of the inn, and then back to the discussion in the trading post with its tethered goats and tethered dancing girls. The conversation played out in his mind’s eye, Doc himself trying to justify his need to pursue the promise of Babyville.



DOC WAS EXPLAINING Croxton’s proposition to his companions, but J.B. kept dismissing his words, waving his hand in front of his face as though swatting at a fly.




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